


Let Me

by winchestersingerautorepair



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Castiel (Supernatural), Pining, Prostitute Dean Winchester, Sexual Tension, Strangers to Lovers, Student Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Warning: Brief Allusion to Sexual Violence, sex stuff lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24576595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersingerautorepair/pseuds/winchestersingerautorepair
Summary: Some things must keep out of sight, and in 1970’s New York, there are many places to hide. When Castiel ventures into a darker corner of the city, he’s not looking for any of what the shadows of life can offer; but when a stranger willing to take the risk catches his eye, he finds his plans changing in spite of the danger. Castiel soon finds both his life, and his heart, hopelessly entangled with that of Dean Winchester, a man who doesn’t truly belong to the night.A story about how beautiful things can sometimes be found in the darkest of places.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 31
Kudos: 96
Collections: BottomDeanBigBang2020





	1. Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my incredible beta, Sam, (quiettewandering on Ao3), and to the mods of the BottomDeanBigBang, who've worked very hard to make this possible. And another thank you to my artist, Vero, who went above and beyond to illustrate my little fic and produced beautiful work.  
> To all my friends, to my brother, and to my lovely girlfriend -- I couldn't have done this without your encouragement and support.

* * *

_New York City, 1974_

Times square, seedy and squalid in daylight, seemed to have been set on fire by the night. It glittered with neon signs and flashing letters that cast a red halo over bustling midnight crowds. But this was no fifth avenue. While the darkness disguised rundown buildings and general disrepair, it had since ushered out of hiding the various outcasts and nightcrawlers, who now ran about freely like wildlife in a bizarre, vulgar parade. The lights spelled out “ _GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS”_ and _“XXX MOVIES 25 cents”_ and the heads moving beneath them smelled like tobacco and vodka, and they swiveled to the dancers in windows, who beckoned them in through revolving doors. 

Skinny prostitutes shrouded in cigarette smoke were gathered at street corners pacing in their high heels; drabby-clothed users and addicts filtered through backdoors; and the shouts and murmurs and general sounds of the street were raucous and sinister and lacked all the charm and intrigue of night life in other parts of the city. The humanity was rubbed so raw here -- the wall between society and omnipotent desperation worn so thin -- that it made Castiel want to avert his eyes.

 _“Hey, watch it, kid,_ ” came a snarling voice to his right, from a man that Castiel had just shouldered into. Castiel sped up, offering no apology.

The crowd thinned out past the theater and the people seemed keen to avoid Castiel, which was just fine by him. He pulled his coat closer around himself and tucked his head down, stepping over cracks and covering the last few blocks fairly quickly. The bar sign—a flickering, twisted neon thing spelling ‘ _The Terminal’_ —loomed up and Castiel ducked in through the door, which creaked to such a degree that it turned several heads. 

During his few, brief, daytime visits, Castiel had gotten the vague impression that every last shadow, nook and cranny left undisturbed in this bar was teeming with cockroaches. He’d never seen one, mind you, but the bar’s atmosphere made a roach infestation seem so possible that his skin had crawled with imaginary bugs from the minute he’d stepped in to the minute he’d stepped out. 

And just as cockroaches roam freely in the dark, so did the people -- and _The Terminal_ , at night, was infested. It was still grimy and the worse for wear, but it was teeming with guests who rattled around the tables and past stools and in and out of booths, filling the place with an awful, brassy din and the smell of liquor and cheap cologne. There were a number of other bars he could be in right now, ones in safer neighborhoods, closer to his apartment with friendlier crowds and cleaner tabletops, but Castiel was far less likely to run into anyone he knew in this place. Unfamiliarity granted anonymity granted freedom to do as he liked, and Castiel wanted to get drunk. Very drunk.

Shrugging his way past a few drunk couples, Castiel squeezed through a tightly-packed group before taking an open seat at the bar. His stool felt less than reliable, so Castiel planted a foot firmly on the bar’s base molding and hoped it would keep him steady. He stuck out like a sore thumb in _The Terminal._ Unkempt hair and a rumpled trenchcoat weren’t out of place, but he stank of money and uncertainty, neither of which belonged in this part of town; and he had the nagging anxiety of an animal of prey that had strayed from its herd. 

Castiel looked up and down the bar. The bartender had, so far, failed to notice him. 

“Excuse me?” Cas leaned over the counter. _“Excuse me?”_

The bartender continued cleaning a tap.

“Hello? Bartender?”

It was no use.

“ _Hey, Roy!_ Get over here! Kid wants a drink!”

Castiel jumped in his chair. The shout had come from the woman next to him, and she seemed to have accomplished what Castiel hadn’t: the bartender walked their way and came to a stop in front of Castiel, glaring.

“What do you want?”

It took a moment to process this as a request for a drink order and not a threat.

“Uh…” Castiel had forgotten to think over his order.“...beer?” he finished, lamely.

“Okay, funny guy, what _kind_ of beer?”

Castiel was taken aback by his coarseness and grappled to come up with an answer.

“Uh… the _good_ kind?” he said, cringing upon hearing himself.

The bartender’s set jaw now had a muscle straining by his temple.

“ ‘The _good_ kind.’ Jesus Christ, one uh these days I’m --”

“Get him a bottle of El Sol, and two shots of Jack while you’re at it.” Again, Castiel’s neighbor to the right stepped in to save the day. The same woman then spoke directly to Castiel. 

“You’re tryna get drunk, right? Because beer ain’t gonna get the job done by itself.”

The bartender -- _Roy,_ she’d called him -- walked away grumbling. Castiel leaned towards the woman to express his thanks. It was the first time he had gotten a good look at her: she was lean and muscular, small in stature, dressed in denim, black leather, and most enigmatically, sunglasses.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, offering her hand. Cas took it and she shook it firmly, momentarily placing her other hand over his. “The name’s Pamela.”

“Castiel,” Castiel responded.

“Pardon?” asked Pamela, putting a finger to her ear.

“ _Castiel,_ ” Castiel repeated, more loudly this time.

 _“Cas-tee-el?_ Weird name. You French or something?” Before Castiel had a chance to answer, Pamela went on. 

“No? Well, I’ll work it out another time.” She swirled the ice in her glass with a toothpick. “So, what brings you to these parts, Cas-tee-el? You’re not from around here.”

Castiel scratched at his collar, unsure of what was meant by that. “I, uh, just needed a night out.”

Pamela flashed a grin, passing her tongue over her white teeth. 

“C’mon, _Cas-tee-el,_ you gotta give me a bit more than that. This place ain’t exactly chocked full of entertainment.”

“Well, uh--”

“ROY! I said _Jack Daniels,_ not that watered-down 7-Eleven bullshit!” 

Again Castiel flinched at Pamela’s sudden outburst. Behind the counter, Roy slowly and begrudgingly set down a plastic bottle of bourbon, and tipped out the contents of a crystal tumbler. 

“And don’t think I can’t feel you boring your eyes through the back of my head, neither,” she added, smiling.

“Like he’d even have known the diff'rence,” Roy the bartender grumbled, swiping a bottle off a high shelf. “Could’a poured the kid a glass of lighter fluid and he wouldn’t’a been none the wiser.”

Castiel bristled at this, and his hand gripped the bar still harder.

“Is that it? Well, I’ll make sure to mention that to your manager,” she chided. “And hey, while you’re at it, another refill, would you?”

“ _Another?_ This rate, you’re gonna drink yourself blind.” Roy smirked. 

“Funny,” Pamela said, as she turned away from the bartender. “Back to you, then, Castiel.”

Castiel was grateful for that short intermission, as it had allowed him to gather something to say about himself.

“Well, I’m in school. I rent an apartment west of here.” Castiel stopped to think, and quickly came to the conclusion that he had nothing interesting left to say. “That’s about it.”

Pamela smirked and plucked her freshly-delivered drink off the table. _“Fascinating,”_ she teased. “Oh, c’mon, you gotta have more than that for me.” 

Castiel continued to pull blanks, so Pamela offered up a prompt.

“Alright. Where do you go to school?”

“Uhm…” 

Castiel never did like talking about where he went to school. He’d always been ashamed of his family’s wealth; and it bothered him that while he’d paid his own way for room and board and other expenses, his tuition was fully sponsored by his estranged parents. They may not want their son home for Christmas dinner, but God forbid he disgrace the family name by becoming something other than a doctor or a lawyer.

“...Columbia. I study medicine there.”

Pamela’s eyebrows jumped.

“White collar. Unexpected,” she drawled through another sultry smile. “What’re you doing around here, then? We don’t get lots of academics.”

 _“I don’t know,”_ said Castiel, irritably. “I guess, a change of scenery? I don’t know. I just wanted a drink.” 

With that he tipped back one of the shot glasses that had been set in front of him, and did his best to suppress the grimace the bitter liquid inspired.

“Whoa, this isn’t an interrogation or anything, Cas-tee-el,” Pamela responded, “No need to get all tense.”

Castiel felt a trickle of embarrassment. He hadn’t intended to come off sounding course, although it seemed to happen often. And as if Pamela sensed his regret, she went on.

“No worries. You didn’t hurt my feelings or anything, sugar. So, tell me: you got a girlfriend?”

Cas stopped to look up at Pamela. He squinted, puzzled. 

“Are you-- are you coming on to me?”

Pamela laughed: a deep, hearty laugh that creased her cheeks and rolled her shoulders. It wasn’t an unkind laugh, quite the opposite-- it was friendly amusement, simple and pure. 

“No, no,” she said. “Just an innocent question.” 

“Oh. Uh, no.” Castiel felt his cheeks become warm. 

. _..Meg?_

“Well, sort of, I guess,” Cas amended, contemplating Meg, and her place in his world. Another moment, and Cas decided to change his answer yet again. “Uh, not really, no.”

“Huh. Mysterious.”

“ It’s really not like tha-- I don’t have anyone, I mean.”

“Really? Handsome fella such as yourself? Interesting.”

“Uh,” said Castiel, as he fiddled with a crease in his collar. He scrambled to contribute something to the conversation. 

“So, what’s your story?” He asked.

“Tonight’s story? Or do you want the whole life story?” she asked, with a half smile. “Well, tonight, I’m just waiting on a friend. Speaking of, what’s the weather like out there?”

Castiel glanced to the window, confused. The bar’s windows were grimy, but he could see through them just fine; and if Pamela were to turn her head thirty degrees to her right, she’d be looking directly through one.

“There’s a window right there. Not to be rude,” Castiel added, quickly.

“Ah.” Said Pamela, as she put back a swig of her drink. “It’s just that my eyes aren’t in working order.”

“What?”

Pamela chuckled softly, and she turned to look at Castiel straight on. With a strong, slim hand, Pamela took her sunglasses down her nose and peered over them at Castiel. He was surprised to find that her eyes weren’t eyes-- but pale, milky white orbs. 

“Scared you, didn’t I? Ha-hah!” She laughed in triumph, putting her shades back in place. “Don’t worry, they’re just glass. For effect.” 

“You’re blind,” Castiel added, stupidly.

“Impressive observational skills.” 

“Oh.” Cas began puzzling out how he’d missed such a significant attribute. 

He reviewed the brief time they had spent together, trying to understand how it hadn’t seemed to affect how she -- well, how she… functioned. The bartender’s joke came to mind. 

“So when he--” Castiel blurted, referencing Roy’s jab about ‘drinking yourself blind.’

“Yeah.” Pamela chuckled. “Real comedian, isn’t he?”

“But--” Castiel started again. How could she have been so confident? Her movements were precise and without hesitation, and she was so aware of her surroundings it had seemed she had eyes in the back of her head. Now he knew that not only did she lack that second set of eyes, she lacked the first. 

“You called me handsome,” he said, still completely bemused.

She smiled, deftly placing a hand on his shoulder, which she gave a squeeze. “Oh, some things I can just tell.”

“Uh,” said Castiel.

He looked down at the hand on his shoulder, still not convinced that he wasn’t being flirted with. But his vague suspicions didn’t last, for his brain was once again pulling up instances where blindness would have made little sense.

“But then how’d you-- “

“Third eye,” she interrupted.

“Third _what?”_

“Nothing.”

They fell into silence, and Castiel contemplated his beer. He popped the cap off with some complaint from the skin of his palm. When he tried it, it was rich and dark, warm to the tongue, and tasted a lot like how wood smelled. It was good.

“This is good,” he remarked, to no one in particular.

“I know,” said Pamela. “That’s why I ordered it for you.”

“Well, thank you.”

He took another swig. Castiel took a moment to refamiliarize himself with his environment -- he noticed the tinny, clamouring music filtering above the crowd. A more trained ear might have made it out to be David Bowie, a name Castiel suspected after a minute or so of discerning plucky, dream-like chords as they drifted down from the speakers.

“Got a light?” Pamela asked upon producing a box of cigarettes.

“Yeah,” said Castiel, fishing around in his coat pocket. While he didn’t smoke himself, the question had arisen enough times that he’d elected to keep a Bic lighter on hand.

He gave it to Pamela. With surprising coordination and ease she lit her cigarette, took a drag, and gave the light back to Castiel.

“Care for one?” She asked him now, offering the carton of cigarettes.

“No, no thanks,” he waved her off, opting instead for another sip of beer.

“Suit yourself.”

Half a bottle left of beer and Castiel was already feeling a bit fuzzy. The bar was a haze of smoke and dim lights full of the muddled tones of dozens of voices. But even through the golden sunrays provided by a few drinks, Castiel’s innate suspicion persisted. He hadn’t forgotten where he was, and knew well enough to stay wary of his surroundings. Around him, beneath the din, people were discussing practice, trade, and profit -- all of which, on this side of town, were mainly sourced at the expense of others. 

But whether it was the alcohol in his system, or the welcomed dissociation brought on by his emotional state, he’d been saved the anxiety of hypervigilance. So, when the familiar prickle ran up his spine, Castiel’s first reaction was disappointment. He felt it first as he dropped his lighter back in his pocket. His proverbial security blanket relinquished its hold, and a stiff-backed Castiel let his brow furrow once again as he fixed his eyes forward. The feeling persisted, and Castiel downed his second shot.

“What’s the time?”

Castiel spontaneously remembered Pamela, who still sat next to him. He then checked his watch.

“Ten-fifty-eight,” Castiel relayed.

“Your watch is off,” said Pamela.

Just a second or so later, the bar door swung open. A full-figured black woman stepped in, draped in blue-purple fabrics and scarves, her neck, ears and wrists adorned with pendant jewelry. She walked with confidence towards the bar, and the crowd seemed to part to clear her path. It was no surprise to Castiel when she walked their way, as Castiel had already pegged her as the friend Pamela was waiting on. Strange characters usually came in pairs.

 _“Pamela,”_ said the friend in a warm, dulcet voice as she opened her arms.

 _“Missouri!”_ Pamela beamed, putting out her cigarette and dismounting her barstool.

The two embraced, and the friend -- Missouri -- took Pamela’s hands in hers and gave them a heartfelt squeeze.

“Now don’t _you_ look nice tonight,” Missouri admired.

“I wouldn’t know,” Pamela replied. 

The two laughed. Their laughs were similar; both were affectionate and unreserved. They continued talking. 

Missouri was older than Pamela, Castiel noted, though not significantly. He wasn’t particularly skilled at guessing age, but he had taken Pamela to be a year or two older than him. Missouri looked to be about thirty. Her defined features had lost the blurring of youth, but retained the fullness and glow that lent vitality to her striking form. Her hair was cropped short, her eyes were big and soulful, and her lips were painted a deep crimson.

“And hello there,” Missouri greeted, and it took Castiel a moment to realize she was talking to him.

“Oh. Hello,” Castiel replied, snapping himself back into the present and shaking her outstretched hand. She wore a number of rings and her nails were long and manicured. “Castiel,” he added.

“Missouri,” she said. “Oh, there’s no need.”

Castiel, who was just about to offer his seat, stalled in confusion.

“No, I--” Castiel said as he got off of his stool. “Please take my seat.”

“Really, darling, don’t worry. We’re leaving in just a moment.”

“We _are?”_ Pamela complained. “You don’t want a drink?”

“Now, what do you take me for, girl?” Missouri chided. “ It’s like you don’t even know me.”

Castiel stood awkwardly by the pair, holding his beer as they continued their friendly banter. His mind wandered back to pensive detachedness, and the troubled feeling that had been nagging at him now came into center stage. Frowning, Castiel took a look around the bar. It was an ocean of faces moving in and out of the shadows, cigarette smoke rising up from them like sea foam. Booths lined the back wall, dusty hanging lights floating above them and giving each cubby the false impression of isolation. At one, a man in a hat shamelessly snaked his hand up the skirt of a scantily-dressed woman.

He scanned the crowd further. Neon signs flickered, raucous laughter sounded, money was passed from one hand to another. Castiel was about to return to his beer when his eyes locked with the cause of his disquiet. 

From an alcove in the back of the bar, a young man looked right back at Castiel. When their eyes met, instead of glancing away, the young man just went on looking. 

“And, Pamela, where’d you find this _fine_ specimen anyways?” Missouri asked, turning her attention to Castiel and giving him a once-over.

Pamela laughed. “Oh, you know how I am, Miz, I got pretty-boys lined up at my door.”

“Well, well, that means you can spare one, now, can’t you?”

Castiel must have looked as taken-aback as he felt, for Missouri’s raised eyebrow turned into a sympathetic smile.

“No worries, sweetheart, I know you’re not about all that,” she said.

Castiel merely looked his confusion.

“So, uh, how do you know each other?” he asked the pair, after shaking himself.

“Business partners,” they said together.

“We’ve got a building a street from here,” Pamela elaborated. “We rent rooms, read your tarot cards, summon your dead grandmother, sell some hash. It’s a living.”

“Oh.” Castiel said, not sure how to respond to this extraordinary proclamation. 

“Pam’s underplaying it. She loves it,” Missouri intoned, casting an affectionate look Pamela’s way.

“Don’t call me that,” Pamela snipped. “Hey, Roy!” She waved a twenty in the air. “My tab.”

“Come by some time,” Missouri continued to Castiel. “It’s just past Antoni’s. Got a big ‘ol pink sign on it that says ‘PSYCHIC’. Hard to miss.”

“Speaking of that,” said Pamela, “we’d better split.”

“Alright. Have a good night,” Castiel said. “ And thank you,” he added to Pamela, not entirely sure which kindness he was thanking her for. All of them, perhaps.

“No sweat. Stay gold, Cas-tee-el,” Pamela said, as she produced a cane from next to her stool.

“Nice meeting you,” Castiel said to Missouri, before being pulled into an unexpected hug. She released him after a moment, leaving a trace of earthy incense.

“Goodbye, and good luck,” Missouri offered in return, and Castiel was left wondering what she meant. 

The pair departed, winding through the crowd with Missouri in the lead. A moment passed, and they disappeared into the night. Someone had already taken the seats he and Pamela had occupied, so Castiel elected to stay standing, where he dissolved into the shuffling crowd, comfortably invisible. Except, he wasn’t invisible. Castiel glanced to the dim back corner of the bar and found the same figure silhouetted, whose eyes once again met his. Castiel didn’t break eye contact as the man lifted a lighter to his face, flicking it open to light the cigarette between his lips. The flame illuminated his features for just a moment before being put out. The man was young, Castiel could see, with the lines of striking features. Intrigue had kept him looking this long, but his considerable disquiet now had him turning back to the bar. He took a swig of his beer for good measure.

The man was too far away to see clearly, and it was quite possible his was a familiar face. And, even if it weren’t, the stranger certainly seemed to know who _Castiel_ was. 

Castiel finished his bottle and wedged himself towards the bar.

“Roy?” He said, placing his empty bottle on the bar. “Another one of these, please. Put it on my tab.”

“What tab?” Roy snapped, swiping up the bottle. “You haven’t got a tab yet. And where do you get off, calling me ‘Roy?’”

“Well, what about my other drinks?”

“Paid for,” he barked. “Pamela’s got a soft spot for doe-eyed suckers like yourself.”

“Hmm,” Castiel answered. “I’ll open a tab, then.”

Castiel would have liked to offer to pay for his previous drinks, and let Pamela’s money pay for her next trip to the bar, but he felt that he couldn’t trust Roy to not pocket the cash for himself. 

As another beer was slid to him across the bar, he wondered about Pamela, and offered bemused thanks to the universe that he should’ve stumbled across her path. But, with her had left the momentary peace and occupation, and the demons that had driven him to drink began stalking him once more. And as before, the feeling that he was being watched rose like a soloist above the anxious violin chorus that was his thoughts.

As he moved away from the bar, he chanced another backwards glance at the shadowy corner. Castiel was closer now, and found the same figure as before now in sharper focus. The stranger was already looking intently at Castiel when Castiel met his gaze, and didn’t seem phased in the least that his subject was aware of him -- he kept on gazing, his eyes appraising, curious. The stranger was undeniably handsome, nearly pretty. 

Castiel was now certain he hadn’t met this man in his life, as he would have surely remembered him: he possessed an extra-ordinary face, one that would stand out in the mind. Young, just beyond his teen years, this man could easily have modeled -- what with the graceful lines of his features, both masculine and feminine -- but Castiel could tell he didn’t model. He had a worn, hardened look woven into his beauty, something made immediately recognizable by the faded bruise that decorated his cheekbone.

He was clean-shaven with short hair, and his clothes hardly seemed appropriate. An old, oversized leather jacket was the only thing he wore over a white undershirt, and his buckled jeans were slung low enough on his hips that the skin of his abdomen was almost visible. The cigarette that had occupied his mouth earlier had gone. He was now leaning against a post, thumbs in his pockets, looking loftily disinterested in his surroundings, Castiel being the only exception. The stranger held his gaze near defiantly, with the suggestion of a smirk tugging at a corner of his mouth. Ten seconds must have passed while Castiel stared back, transfixed. He could not make head nor tail of the situation, something that caused him to root to the spot. 

What finally spurred Castiel to look away wasn’t a breaking of the spell, but an intensification of it-- for as the world around him continued to recede from the moment, as strange, pulsing seconds ticked by at glacial speed, it happened. The stranger’s smirk grew ever so slightly, and he gave Castiel a small, yet unmistakable, wink.

The tremendous leap in Castiel’s stomach was no contest to the rush of blood to his head. He stared blankly for a half of a second before lurching around to face the doorway, heart beating alarmingly quickly. Though he tried, Castiel could not dispute what he had just seen, because it was being replayed on a loop in his head like some bizarre, high definition clip of film footage.

His hand shuffled to his hip pocket, patting his wallet vaguely, as though doing something so familiar might snap him back to reality. Men didn’t behave that way with one another. It just wasn’t done, and it certainly would not be well received by the public if it were; for though dark bedrooms and secluded places may tell a different story, in public, the relations between men were plainly ordered and decidedly masculine. For better or for worse, this unspoken rule was never as obvious as when it was being ignored. And ignoring it was dangerous, for everyone involved.

So, could he have imagined it? _No,_ he thought, _I couldn’t have._ Castiel had been accused of many things, but never of having an overactive imagination. 

Did he chance another look back? _No,_ he thought, this time with less conclusivity. The jumping, aching feeling inside of him squeezed tight in his chest, morphing into something that better resembled anticipation. This troubled Castiel, but his worry did nothing to stem the nearly irresistible desire to turn around.

Did he chance another look back? _Yes._

Castiel turned slowly, his head in the lead. He spotted the young man before having turned completely to face him. The stranger had never looked away.

The tension Castiel felt had settled deep in his torso, hot and effervescent, making him catch his breath. The back of his neck burned, but his higher mind was now taking command of the situation; and the danger it detected, which had spurred the electrical jolts of excitement still pulsing through his nervous system, became a catalyst for anger. It was a defense mechanism, an instinct far more familiar to Castiel, because it originated in his intellectual sensibility-- the corner of his mind which he most frequently occupied, and therefore, was a place of great comfort. He latched onto this reaction with such enthusiasm that the effect was rather like a shove to the chest.

Being offended was a natural, acceptable response to being come on to by another man. Even if it was more out of his fear of public backlash than an actual aversion to the prospect. In fact, it was for precisely the _opposite_ reason Castiel was so upset-- he _wasn’t_ opposed to the prospect, making the situation all the more dangerous for him. 

Castiel had turned to face the man entirely now, and the man remained completely unabashed. This inspired such a powerful wave of frustration in Castiel he nearly lost his balance. He knew that this anger was just a convenient front for a wide host of less clear-cut emotion; but anger was most easily spurred into action, and Castiel felt the need to act. The alcohol was causing an irritating pulsing sensation in his right temple, interfering with his ability to think. The air in the bar was blurred by heat and smoke, rendering the scene dim and distorted, as though viewed by candlelight through a smudged lens, but the stranger stood out clearly, as though he were the only other solid shape in an abstract oil painting. 

They couldn’t be more than ten feet apart now. People were passing between them like flickering shadows, momentarily obstructing Castiel’s view of the young man, who appeared entirely unaffected. Logic provided that the rest of the bar was too preoccupied to take notice of their silent staring contest. This, however, was little comfort to Castiel, who felt as though he’d be caught in the sights of a helicopter searchlight.

* * *


	2. In the Shadows

Some of Castiel’s frustration must have shown in his expression, for an self-satisfied smirk flashed across the stranger’s face. This was too much for Castiel’s nerves. He wanted to start forward and do, _something._ What _something_ might be, he did not know-- but the idea of continuing to stand here, feeling foolish and doing nothing, was intolerable. 

And yet, there he stood. Fixed to the spot, he glared at the stranger, unable to propel himself forward. He teetered on the edge of acting, not dropping his gaze, and the stranger looked back, unphased. Finally, it became too much. When the man’s eyes flickered away and he began to walk deeper into the shadows, Castiel unfroze and veered towards the man, who turned in surprise. Castiel shocked himself with his own actions, but made no effort to stop himself when he pushed the stranger against a wall with his forearm and gritted his teeth.

“What’s your problem?” he growled at the man, who looked part taken aback, part pleased with himself. The man showed no trace of fear, and Castiel hated him for it. He pressed harder. “Who are you?” he asked, with the same snarl in his voice.

“Whoa whoa, buddy,” said the man, raising his hands to plead innocence. “Dunno what you mean.”

“You know perfectly well what I--” Castiel started, before grimacing and taking a step back, freeing the man from the wall. 

“Well now that I’m no longer pinned...” he paused, scratching the back of his neck. “I, uh…”

Castiel’s anger blended with confusion. The man’s demeanor had changed with proximity, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

“Why have you been watching me?” he asked, bluntly.

“Why does it bother you so much?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Castiel scoffed, sarcasm in his every word, “maybe, because I find being watched by some strange man lurking in the corner of a bar a bit, unsettling?”

The stranger looked at him curiously, as though sizing him up. His mouth moved without sound for a moment, as though framing the words before he spoke them. Castiel found his eyes being pulled downwards to the movement.

“Didn’t mean to freak you out or nothin’,” the young man said, smiling. “The way you talk, you’d think no one had ever taken an interest in you.”

The ringing in Castiel’s ears gave way to a flat silence. He sputtered. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

Castiel’s lapse in confidence seemed to have triggered a resurgence in the other man, whose self-satisfied smirk blossomed again. His lips were very pink.

“Well,” said the man, tongue darting out between his teeth as his eyes did a casual rake down and up Castiel. “You looked like you could use some... _company_.”

“If-- if I-- what are you implying?”

The stranger laughed. A brief, huffy sort of laugh, but a laugh all the same. 

“You--” Castiel gritted out, “you think you can just, go around and--”

“You don’t come here often, do you?” The man interrupted.

“No. I don’t. And I don’t appreciate you imply that I’m -- that I’d--”

His voice was going from a hiss to a more audible crackle.

“Hey, hey now,” said the stranger, placing a hand on his shoulder and glancing about, looking anxious for the first time. Castiel shrugged off the hand, which fell limply back to the man’s side. “Let’s keep it down, huh?” he finished.

Brow furrowed, Castiel took a moment to look over the stranger close up. He was almost arrestingly good looking, even more so with uncertainty drawing his features up tightly. His eyes were light, green probably, though in the dim bar they appeared too smokey for Castiel to be sure. The bruise on his cheek was more evident from this distance, and where his features were unblemished, freckles speckled the skin. He was a bit taller than Castiel, but just by an inch, and while not small in stature, he was quite lean.

The stranger took a few more steps back, deeper into shadow, and Castiel found himself following.

“Who are you?” he asked, able to think of nothing else to say.

“I’m Dean.” 

He said it simply, as though this was an adequate response. Castiel blinked, feeling slow, confused at the eb and flow of his own anger. 

“Okay,” he said back, creating a small diversion by taking a swig of his beer. But there wasn’t enough for a whole gulp, and Castiel ended up knocking back the last few dribbles in his now empty bottle. Dean noticed.

“Why don’t we get two more of those and sit down. Then maybe you’ll tell me _your_ name.”

“I’m supposed to buy you a drink now?” Castiel shot back, indignantly.

Dean laughed. “No, I’ve got it. I have change to spare for a guy like you.”

Castiel responded with a half shocked, half inquisitive stare, and once more, the man’s confidence faltered. He turned, presumably to hide the flush in his cheeks, and sauntered towards the bar. In a daze, Castiel watched his figure retreat, slim hips that swayed ever so slightly with his bowed legs. A flash of curiosity, of what those legs would look like straddling him, before he shook his head of the thought and felt a shiver of fear mingled with want trickle down his spine. 

What was he supposed to do now? _How had this man, Dean, known?_

Nervously, Castiel glanced around the bar, expecting to see faces turned his way, watching him with suspicion. But no one seemed to have noticed anything. Would they even care? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he felt dirty, marked, exposed. Was he that easily understood, that some man on the opposite side of a bar had picked up on it with such certainty that he would… _no,_ thought Castiel, _I could be misinterpreting this. It could be a trick. Or I’m just an idiot._ Whatever the truth was, he was shaken. It was as though he had been seen-- and seen so easily. It was dangerous. This man, this Dean, was dangerous for approaching him. _You approached him first, Castiel,_ came a snide voice in his mind. _And you’re gonna follow him to that counter._

Angry with himself, with this weakness, Castiel’s feet carried him after Dean, hovering a few paces back as Dean flagged down Roy and got them two more beers. Dean turned then, beers in hand, eyebrows raised and a playful grin lighting up his features. Any fight left in Castiel had been snuffed out minutes ago, quelled by the gentle curve of a collarbone catching the light or perhaps a flit of eyelashes, but Castiel refused to admit it to himself. Dean, with a nod of his head, pointed out an empty booth near where they had been standing. It, too, was in partial shadow.

A few seconds and Castiel was sitting in a booth with this man. This dangerous, attractive man in a beat up leather jacket, for whom he’d felt just moments before the burning desire to punch in the face. Dean slid him a beer, which Castiel just held.

“So,” said Dean, with a sigh. “Name.”

“Uh.”

“You have a name, don’t you? Or would you rather not say.”

“Why wouldn’t I-- my name’s Castiel,” said Castiel, bluntly.

“Huh.” Dean traced the opening of the bottle with a finger. Castiel followed it. “Some name.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dunno.”

With this, Dean brought the bottle to his lips and took a long drag, eyes closed and throat exposed. Castiel shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Why were you doing that?” Castiel demanded all of a sudden, in a dark whisper. “Why have you been watching me? Don’t you know how,” and he looked around himself before leaning in closer, “how that looks?”

Dean smirked again. Castiel might have been wrong. Maybe he _did_ still want to punch his pretty mouth.

“Cas.”

_“Castiel.”_

“Whatever. Cas. I wouldn’t still be walkin' and talkin' if I didn’t know how to pick people out of a crowd. Anyways, around here? Doesn’t matter. Hey--” he said, a hint of panic creasing his forehead for a brief moment, “-- I’m not, not being a massive idiot here, am I? Sure, you’re jumpy, but I don’t think you’re here for … if that’s why you’re here.”

Castiel looked on, completely nonplussed. Dean forced another little laugh, visibly attempting to pull himself back together. And he managed it quickly.

“Why are you here, Cas?” he asked, evidently giving up on whatever it was he was trying to say before.

“Out for a drink,” Castiel answered shortly.

“Hmm,” said Dean

“Hmm,” said Castiel.

“A drink? That’s all?” said Dean. “Look, I’m no expert on people, but you don’t look like a regular. Why here?”

“What do you mean?”

“This ain’t exactly a destination.”

“That’s the point, yeah.”

A beat. 

“You’re not a talker, are you,” said Dean, a flirtatious smile on his face.

Castiel didn't reply. Instead, he watched Dean take another sip from his drink, clearly putting on a show for Castiel’s benefit. Automatically, Castiel pulled his beer towards him, readjusting his grip on the body of the bottle, fingers feeling the shape as Dean gave a satisfied sigh upon swallowing. Without thought, Cas took a swig of his own beer, and his chest burned as he set it back down, watching Dean run a finger over his lip, where some moisture still clung.

“You know,” said Dean, leaning closer to Castiel, “I came here for a drink too, though I’m not against getting something a little bit more.”

Castiel gulped, wondering if he had properly guessed the implications.

“Why me?” He asked Dean, hoping Dean would understand his meaning.

Evidently, he did.

“Because I’ve been you,” said Dean, and Castiel felt a hand settle on his thigh.

It was a tentative sort of touch, just the weight of Dean’s hand, but Castiel knew what it meant. His heart leapt into his mouth, and through his hazy mind came a flood of clarity. He looked down to his lap before his eyes traveled slowly back up, and he looked through his lashes at Dean, whose eyes seemed to darken, and the hand began a caress. It gripped him lightly, feeling the curve of his thigh, strong, gentle fingers sending pulses of anticipation through Castiel.

“There’s somewhere we can go. Somewhere we won’t be seen.”

Dean spoke it in a low voice, and there was a purr in it that had not been there before. And whether he had gone mad, or was too drunk to think straight, or the boy in the leather jacket had put a spell over him, Castiel decided that he would follow where he led. He slid from the booth and straightened his clothes nervously. Dean beckoned him to follow, and deeper into the bar they went.

A few steps from where he and Dean had stood was a dark hallway, in which the only light came from a sputtering wall sconce that did nothing more than cause dim flashes on the discarded dishes piled on a dusty cart. Dean sidestepped the cart, looking like he’d been this way many times before. Castiel followed him down this passageway, which presumably led to a back entrance, and the sounds of the patrons of _The Terminal_ dulled behind them. A door was flung open and Dean shot out a hand to stop it, and looked back over his shoulder for Castiel. Castiel nodded, giving what he hoped was a small smile but feared had ended up looking like more of a grimace. Whatever it had been it seemed to amuse Dean, who cracked a lopsided grin. Once Castiel had the door, Dean went forward, and Castiel found himself in a back alley, just wide enough for a car, but Castiel couldn’t see a street, just a fence and wall on one side, and more backs of buildings to the other side. The sound of the bustling city around them was oddly muted, and Castiel got the impression that they were the only ones around.

He had been too busy taking in his surroundings to notice that Dean was looking at him.

“It’s a safe place,” he said quietly, as though having read Castiel’s mind. “Nobody's gonna catch us here. Trust me?”

Castiel hesitated. Why should he trust this man? Hadn’t he, just minutes before, been terrified, furious at this very stranger? This was dangerous, so dangerous; and like it had waited for just this cue, his desire flamed up within him, licking at his insides, singeing his nerves. He didn’t trust Dean, not truly. But there was no going back now. And he chose not to answer. Instead, he stepped towards Dean. Haltingly, he grasped the lapels of Dean’s jacket, and pulled Dean to him, their breath mingling together now. Castiel could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. 

They kissed. A beast in Castiel roared its appeasement, and he deepened the kiss as Dean’s hands grabbed at his back, fingers dug into his coat. He passed his tongue hungrily over Dean’s, and pulled back to look at him. Not giving a thought about the damp alleyway floor, Castiel struggled to free himself from his coat, which Dean pulled off of him. It fell into a heap on the ground. Dean was on him once more, and Castiel freed the top two buttons of his shirt as Dean sucked marks onto his neck, rough and frenzied and just what Castiel needed. His hands slid under Dean’s jacket, which also came off, a flying bundle of bulky leather that hit the lid of a dumpster with a muffled crash.

Castiel had let go of his inhibitions because it had been a long, long time since he’d had someone so beautiful against him, and his hands were running down the curve of Dean’s back, down to his ass, firm and inviting. Their lips slotted together, and Castiel sucked Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth. The young man moaned, and in response, Castiel moved to his jaw, kissing the curve of it down to that beautiful throat.

Denim is unforgiving. Denim is unforgiving, he thought, as he tasted Dean, as they fell against the rough brick wall. There was some shuffling as Dean turned to face the wall and Castiel fit himself against his back, bodies pressed together, one of Castiel’s hands holding Dean’s wrist to the wall. Dean arched his back, grinding his ass against Castiel, along the line of his arousal. Their slight height difference was perfect now. Castiel rolled his hips into Dean and kissed the back of his neck, feeling the heat of Dean’s body against him, any thought of the coldness of the night forgotten. 

His erection throbbed in his jeans, and he ground into Dean, trying desperately to sate it. There was little grace to their motions, and that was okay; because neither were bothered by it, both were stealing pleasure in the dead of night, and when Castiel’s hand traveled down to Dean’s groin and he palmed the hardness there, Dean muttered his consent. A fumbling of zippers and Dean’s Levi’s were below his hips, Castiel feeling the cloth of his briefs, the proof of Dean’s arousal, straining against the thin fabric. He guided it free, thumbing the tip, which was already wet with precome. After spitting in his palm, Castiel pumped his hand down and up Dean’s thick shaft, eliciting from the man a whining groan. 

It wasn’t lovemaking. It was raw and rough and dirty, almost desperate, something animal having been awakened in them while hidden in the shadows. Castiel was jacking Dean off in time with his thrusts, Castiel relishing in the feeling of his hips rocking back against him, delighted to hear the sounds ushered from the young man by his ministrations. He tugged at an earlobe with his teeth and kissed Dean’s neck, tasting the salt of sweat on his tongue. Dean’s cock was hot in his hand, and there certainly wasn’t enough lubricant but in their frenzy neither minded.

A shuddering gasp preceded Dean’s hushed, wrecked voice, saying, “Cas, I’m close.”

Hearing his name, though truncated, caused something like a firecracker to go off inside of Castiel. He put his efforts into getting Dean off, cupping his balls before wrapping his hand around the base of Dean’s cock, bringing his hand up and back down with a flourish, fingers working madly to coax out as much sensation as he could for Dean.

“I’m-- I’m--”Dean moaned, a cry catching in his throat, and Castiel felt Dean’s length twitch as he came, hot come splashing his hand before splattering to the ground. 

They stayed like this for a moment, Castiel brushing chapped lips over the skin of Dean’s neck, using the slick of Dean’s come to give his sensitive cock a couple more strokes. Dean was catching his breath, gulping at the night air. Castiel found that he was still idly moving his hips, and it was Dean’s singular, huffing laugh that first made him aware. Dean nudged Castiel, and Castiel took a half step back so Dean could straighten up. He busied himself with his pants a moment, and Castiel watched regretfully as the cleft of Dean’s ass disappeared behind cotton and then denim.

He’d turned to face Castiel again, and Castiel got his first proper look at Dean’s body sans bulky leather jacket. He had toned arms and relatively broad shoulders, and a small waist. Dean seemed to be taking this moment as well to give the other a look over, for Dean’s eyes were raking his body, now clothed in only a white dress shirt and jeans. 

“Hey,” said Dean, eyes still heavy with pleasure. “C’mere.”

Castiel obeyed the summons almost without thought, for all his effort was being put into controlling himself. He was afraid he was gonna jump Dean if he gave in fully to the want clawing at his insides. Fear of being caught seemed to have heightened his senses, but regret was the last thing he felt as he kissed the beautiful stranger, lips wet and hungry, a hint of teeth catching his upper lip before disappearing into softness. 

“That,” said Dean, “was-”

“Yeah,” said Castiel. He didn’t want to talk; his mouth had better things to be doing.

Dean sucked a mark onto Castiel’s neck, and at the same time, brought a hand around to Castiel’s front, fondling the now painful erection in Castiel’s pants. He gasped in surprise.

“What?” Dean teased. “Don’t think I forgot about you.”

And it was Castiel’s turn to be up against a wall, for Dean had walked him backwards to where the bins blocked the view. Dean had a strange light in his eyes as he passed a hand over Castiel’s body, up his chest and to his bicep, back to his abdomen, and hooking his fingers in the waist of his jeans so they were flush against one another again. Just as Castiel went in to kiss Dean, Dean’s pretty face dropped-- as slowly, Dean got to his knees, gazing into Castiel’s eyes the whole way down. Castiel was glad that the wall was there, for he felt as though his knees might go out from under him any second, Castiel stared in disbelief at the young man beneath him.

Deam flashed a grin up at him, eyes and teeth glinting in the light from the streetlamp. His hair was rumpled, shoulders bare, and if he was cold, he didn’t show it. Another wink, and with practiced fingers Dean undid Castiel’s belt, and popped the button of his jeans. Slowly, quite slowly, Dean pulled down the zipper of his fly, and pulses of heat seemed to be emanating from Castiel, but they were nothing compared to the tingling of Dean’s hot breath that he felt through the fabric of his underwear. Everything was taking too long, like someone had slowed down time, and yet things were happening quickly, without pause, and Castiel let out a moan of crazed relief as Dean pulled his briefs below his groin. His erection was heavy and aching, and the sight of this beautiful young man so close to his swollen cock was threatening to drive him insane.

Another groan escaped his lips as Dean wrapped a hand around his shaft, which twitched at the application of pressure. Castiel gritted his teeth, tossing his head back for only a second before again fixing his eyes on Dean, who was no longer smiling. Lips slightly parted, he seemed to consider the head, which was weeping with precum; and suddenly, Castiel found those gorgeous lips wrapped around his cock, enveloping him in heat and wetness.

The night air itself seemed thick with pleasure, as if it was radiating from his flesh and filling the alleyway, the night sky. His thoughts melted together as Dean’s clever tongue swirled around his cock before Dean swallowed him to the hilt, knocking the breath out of him. It couldn’t be more clear that Dean’s was a practiced mouth. Waves of intensity flowed up his abdomen, and the faint smell of sweat and come and _Dean_ hung in his nostrils, obliterating everything else but the feeling of Dean’s mouth surrounding him, sucking him.

Now slick with saliva, Dean stroked his cock with a fist while giving the sensitive tip a few playful licks before flashing his eyes back up to Castiel, mischief twinkling there. He was enjoying himself. Again, without warning, Dean was bobbing his head down, deepthroating him and swallowing around him, making it feel as though there were nerve endings being lit on fire on every inch of his length. His hips stuttered forward before Castiel could master the instinct, but rather than retreat, Dean smiled around his cock. While making slow, maddening passes up and down his shaft, he guided one of Castiel’s hands to his head. Understanding, Castiel wound his fingers into Dean’s short hair and Dean gave a contented hum, the vibrations of which elicited a deep, guttural moan from Castiel’s throat. Dean continued working his talented mouth on Castiel, now licking a line from the base to the tip, following a vein there and sending shivers up Castiel’s spine. He went back down now, teasing his balls with wet lips, the heat of his mouth so much more powerful for the cold night air around them. But Dean now seemed done playing, and Castiel was glad -- for he was growing impatient. With two hands, Dean jacked him languidly as he gave Castiel a salacious look, and Castiel thought he might not ever have seen anything so erotic in his life.

“You like this, huh?” whispered Dean. “You like having my mouth wrapped around your cock. Is this what you wanted? When you shoved me into a wall back there? Because I wanted this,” he almost hissed. “I wanted you.”

“Fuck,” growled Castiel, “yes, yes.”

And Dean sank his head down on Castiel’s cock, keeping tight around him as he bobbed up and down, looking up at Castiel. Castiel found his other hand on Dean’s head, and he was rocking into that intoxicating heat and wetness, hips rolling to meet Dean, whose small sounds vibrated into Castiel’s very core. He was moaning in earnest now, not caring about being heard. Not in a long time had he been this high, and this was so dirty, so taboo, so very fucking _hot,_ that Castiel couldn’t help but feel that this could be a very vivid dream; the worries that had driven him to drink all but gone from his mind now, only scattered thoughts and pure sensation in their place. He knew he wasn’t going to last much longer, and he didn’t worry at all about seeming to lack stamina; for the fifteen minutes he’d spent without getting off had been torture enough. 

This stranger at his feet was more dangerous than Castiel had thought.

“Dean,” he half-cried. “I’m gonna--”

Dean’s eyes registered understanding, and he relaxed, allowing Castiel’s hands to guide his head. Taking initiative, hardly caring just how filthy these acts were, Castiel thrust his hips into Dean’s mouth, who sucked his cock enthusiastically, seeming just as eager to get Castiel to climax as Castiel was. It was building up rapidly in his groin, keening and powerful, hot. Just about to pull out, Dean made it clear that he had other plans for Castiel -- and in a moment, Castiel found himself coming down the throat of this beautiful young man, this stranger, who less than an hour ago he had been ready to hit over the head. He felt himself empty, load after load into the heat of Dean’s mouth, until he was spent.

***

There was a filthy kiss in which Castiel could taste himself on Dean’s lips, and then in silence they put on their coats and straightened their clothes, not looking at one another. Walking to the door, Castiel pulled it open and turned to find that Dean hadn’t followed. He stood in the alleyway, flicking a lighter as he held a cigarette between his teeth.

“Go ahead,” said Dean, the lighter finally taking, and his face suddenly glowed orange. “I’m not going back.”

Castiel paused, on the verge of saying something, but instead he turned back to the door. Inside, he met the suspicious eyes of Roy the bartender, and the news that Dean had paid for his second beer as well as his third. He left the bar with just as much money in his wallet as he’s had when he’d entered, and though he wasn’t exactly drunk, he’d gotten just what he needed -- an escape.

* * *


	3. The Alleyway Again

Castiel’s hands were stuffed deep in his pockets, and his collar was turned up to the wind. It was warmer than it had been the last time he’d come this way, but a chilly gust was blowing down over the buildings and to the street below, causing Castiel to shiver. Fewer people were around than had been a week ago, not that Castiel was paying much attention; he was determined not to let his thoughts wander from his goal. The same buildings loomed up on either side of him, the same signs flashed gaudy and neon bright. 

Past the theater, Castiel glanced up to see the sign for _The Terminal_ glowing above the street, flickering every now and then. Furtively, people filtered in and out of its doors. His feet carried him closer, boots catching on cracks in the pavement. He was just close enough now to see through the bar’s grimy windows, and he felt his pulse quicken. Rather than slow down at his nervousness, Castiel sped up his pace, about to catch the door someone had just come through when --

“Tonight’s not a good night, boy.”

Castiel came to a sudden halt. The door to the bar swung shut. Turning in the direction of the speaker, Castiel found himself looking upon a familiar face -- but not the one he had been seeking. Earrings glinting in the reddish glare, Missouri was looking him over, a cigarette held thoughtfully between two manicured fingers.

“Excuse me?” he said, nonplussed.

Missouri took a long drag from her cigarette before speaking again. “He’s working,” she answered simply, as the cigarette smoke was carried away on the wind.

“Who’s working?”

“Dean.”

“Wait,” began Castiel, mind now working at double speed as he tried to make sense of the situation. “How do you know Dean?”

He wanted to ask how it was she knew that that was why he’d come, but to address that was to call more attention to it.

“Does it matter how I know him?” she asked, gently. “What matters is, this is not a good night for you to see him.”

“Because he’s working,” Castiel supplied, rather stiffly. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to, sweetheart. Go home, Castiel, he’ll be here another night. A better night.”

Above them, the sign for _The Terminal_ buzzed like one large, ugly insect. Castiel tilted his head as he looked at Missouri, who looked back at him calmly, eyes bright and knowing, and Castiel felt as though he was being seen for what he was. It unsettled him.

“I don’t understand how you know…” Castiel swallowed. “Why I’m here.”

Missouri just smiled, and flicked ash onto the curb. For what it was worth, Castiel did not feel threatened by Missouri -- he thought back to the hug she had given him just the week before, the gentleness with which she’d treated him. Castiel was not a trusting man, and yet, begrudgingly, he felt himself trusting this woman all wrapped in dark furs before him, knowing more than she should. But he’d come with a purpose, and he had no plan to turn back at her word.

“I came a long way,” he said, “and I’m going in for a drink.”

He watched Missouri, not certain enough of himself to brush past without waiting for her reaction.

“And I’m not stopping you,” said Missouri, now with a slight frown. “I’ve had my word. Do with it what you’d like.”

“If you’d just explain yourself,” Castiel blurted out, digging his fists deeper into his pockets, “maybe I’d--”

But he did not finish. Ruffled, he started once more towards the door, not looking at Missouri.

“Goodnight, Castiel,” her voice called behind him.

When he turned one last time, it was to see the back of her fur coat swish as she walked away. Unsettled, Castiel stepped into the din of the bar beyond the door.

It had been exactly a week since it had happened, and since then he’d found his thoughts moving in circles, ending where they’d begun: in memories of that night. He’d decided days before he would come back, foolish though he felt doing it. It had been a one night fling, he’d reasoned. It hadn’t meant anything. But this logic fell flat when pitted against midnight fantasies that swirled to life in Castiel’s mind, driving him down to bed early and hope the traffic outside was enough to mask the sounds that would soon escape his lips. 

So he scanned the faces in the bar, watching some eyes flick away from his, others gazing back defiantly, suspiciously. None of them were Dean’s. Turning on the spot, his search yielded nothing until his eyes fell upon the shadowy back corner of the bar-- the very same one in which he’d first seen Dean -- and to Castiel’s surprise, there he stood again.

But this time, he wasn’t alone. Standing next to Dean was a man Castiel didn’t recognize: an older man dressed in a long, dark coat, his hair streaked with gray. He was bigger than Dean, tall and broad. Castiel could make out a slightly hooked nose in profile as the man leaned forward to whisper something in Dean’s ear. Dean seemed different tonight, strained but calm, collected -- playful, but calculatedly so, dressed in a thin, black shirt with cuffed sleeves and an open collar. A moment passed, and Castiel bristled as he watched a large hand emerge from the stranger’s sleeve and wrap sinuously around Dean’s forearm, staying there as Dean smiled deviously, leaning into the touch. They were much too close.

Making up his mind on the spot, Castiel began towards the pair. Dean was speaking low, but he faltered when his eyes fell upon Castiel. A strange, closed expression came over his face, and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Noticing Dean’s momentary preoccupation, the man looked over as well, and Castiel saw a lined, unpleasant face with a scruffy beard and unmistakable traces of alarm. 

Castiel didn’t understand. He watched in suspicious confusion as the man retracted his hand from Dean with the force of someone having just made contact with a hot stove, and made hurriedly to leave before Dean grabbed his arm. Brows furrowed, Dean spoke urgently and quietly to the man, but after a panicked look over at Castiel the man stepped sideways into the crowd and disappeared. Dean called after the man for a moment, but his shoulders soon slumped in defeat. Castiel had bridged the distance between them, and was now close enough to step back in surprise when Dean wheeled around to face him, glaring.

“The hell did you do that for?” Dean hissed, furiously.

“Do what?” Castiel asked, wracking his brain to work out what he could have done wrong.

“You just lost me fifty bucks,” Dean groaned, running a hand frustratedly over his face.

“I-- what?” said Castiel, now feeling acutely wrongfooted, his two interactions of the night so far having been well beyond his ability to comprehend.

Dean threw his hands in the air, eyes wide with exasperation. “You did nothing, pal, except march over here with that pole up your ass, looking like a cop in that stupid trenchcoat.”

Castiel looked at this pretty young man that he had -- just a week before -- come to know carnally, and saw nothing but exasperation and coldness in his green eyes. He felt something heavy fall into his gut, understanding that he’d done something wrong but at a loss as to what it had been. Not for the first time in his life, he wished he could start over, skip back ten minutes and maybe, this time, he’d heed Missouri’s word. But something rooted him to the spot: the same desire for comprehension that had always made him so stubborn and insistent, made stronger, somehow, by the knowledge he’d caused an unknown harm.

“I came to look for you,” he said, almost meekly. 

“Why?” asked Dean, but his tone wasn’t curious. It was derisive. “Why’d you come back here, Cas? What did you think was gonna happen?”

Castiel had no response to this, but Dean didn’t seem to be waiting for an explanation.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, crossing his arms. “I don’t owe you anything,” he added, as though Castiel had demanded something of him.

“I didn’t mean-- I don’t understand. Who was that man?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“You’re upset. I want to know why.”

Dean was looking at him differently now, his exasperation conflicted with something else. He scratched the back of his neck, a nervous action, one Castiel remembered him doing upon their last meeting.

“Why?” Dean asked him, finally. This time, it was really a question.

“Why do I want to know what happened?” Castiel echoed back, running over the inquiry in his head. It was a strange question. “I want to put things right, but I can’t do that until I know what went wrong.”

It was clear now, there was some new conflict playing out in the younger man’s head.

“I don’t get you, Cas,” he said.

“I could say the same about you.”

Dean frowned. “Come on, it’s too loud in here.” He grabbed his jacket off a nearby rack.

And just like they’d done the week before, Dean turned and started down the shadowy hall, Castiel in his wake.

The short journey was eerily similar to their last and yet very, very different. Gone, for one, was trepidation and want, and in its place swirling thoughts about workplaces and warnings, and an unidentifiable sense of loss. In no time Castiel found himself back in the dank alleyway, and with a steadying breath, Dean turned to face him.

“Dunno why I’m even doing this,” Dean said, more to himself than to Castiel. “You’re a bit weird, you know?” he went on, thoughtfully. “And, uh, innocent. Or something. God, this is shitty to have to explain--”

“Are you a drug dealer?” Castiel interrupted.

It had been the explanation that made the most sense to Castiel, after mulling over the clues in his head. But Dean laughed darkly, and the consternation in Dean’s face was replaced by bitter amusement. 

“No,” he said, his laugh fading into something more serious. “I’m a prostitute.”

The admittal wasn’t embarrassed, but steely, overly self-assured. Castiel said nothing in response, thoughts now spinning quietly in another direction.

“That’s what I do. I turn tricks,” Dean said. “That’s how I pay the rent. Last weekend was, well, I’d taken a night off for myself, had some spare cash, but that’s gone now and… yeah. Don’t care if you judge me for it. You do what you gotta, around here, and sometimes it’s the only -- what are you doing?”

For Castiel had been rummaging around a pocket, and had produced a wallet, in which he was leafing through bills. He looked up into Dean’s face.

“I owe you,” Castiel answered, simply.

Dean looked positively mortified. “No, that’s-- last weekend wasn’t, wasn’t like that.” He took a step back, eyes still on the money, not seeming to want to look at Castiel’s face. “That was for fun. A good time.”

“Okay,” said Castiel. “Then, this is to make up for the customer I lost you. You said fifty, right?” And he counted out fifty dollars: a twenty, two tens, and two fives. He held them out to Dean. “Take it.”

The young man looked at the money skeptically, as if unable to work out whether it was really there. “Why are you doing this?” he asked suspiciously, making eye contact with Castiel for the first time since noticing the wallet. 

“Because I want to make it up to you. Like I said,” said Castiel.

“You say that like I just changed a tire for you.”

“And?”

“I don’t know what your angle is here.”

“I don’t have one.”

A beat. They looked at one another, both a bit defiant, but with an unspoken confidence in the other.

“I can’t take your money, Cas,” Dean said flatly, shaking his head, shoulders drawn in. “I just can’t.”

“Please, let me.” And to make his assertion clearer, he closed the gap between them and waved the money in his hand.

Prompted by his approach, Dean stopped glaring at his shoes and looked quickly at Castiel, his expression surprised, soft, vulnerable. Young. Dean searched his face, as if looking for confirmation written there in the lines of his frown. Wordlessly, haltingly, Dean extended a hand towards Castiel, and Castiel stayed still, not wanting to test this hesitant new willingness. An inch away from the bills, Dean’s hand froze.

“You really want me to take this,” he whispered.

“Of course,” said Castiel.

So Dean took the money, and stared down at it with his brow furrowed. Just as he opened his mouth to say something, Castiel spoke again.

“And I don’t want anything in return.”

To Castiel’s mild surprise, Dean looked even more disheartened and miserable for his words. Another flash of vulnerability, but this one lingered in Dean’s tight jaw and troubled eyes, revealing to Castiel the well-disguised wound of freshly lost innocence. He did not protest. And this worried Castiel more than anything else that had happened between them that night.

Castiel gazed at the beautiful young man -- too young to be living like this, his choice or not -- and wondered. He didn’t know quite how to put his thoughts into words; he’d never been good at this, always having relied on actions to speak his intent. And so he decided to ask it.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” 

Dean said nothing, and Castiel went on. 

“I have an apartment west of here. It’s warm, safe. You can sleep the night there.”

The alleyway was quiet, save the muted sound of city life filtering in through the cracks. The two men in it now understood one another a bit more than before.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” Dean said, with the faintest of smiles.

And they set off.

The walk wasn’t a long one, and they made good time, neither talking. Twenty minutes later Castiel’s building came into view, its yellow stone front lit orange by street lamps. It was shorter than the buildings next to it, giving it a squashed appearance, as though it had shrunk to fit the narrow space. Next to him, Dean looked around curiously, taking in the neighborhood. They traded a few brief words, and in minutes they’d gotten into the building, walked up the three flights of stairs to Castiel’s floor, and stood themselves outside the door marked number 407, Castiel’s apartment. Castiel fumbled with his keys as the hall light crackled above.

“I’ve got a roommate,” he said, deciding to give Dean warning, “but he’s probably not here right now. He goes to parties, and other things.”

Jamming the key in the lock, Castiel wiggled it before shouldering into the door, which had a habit of sticking. With a quiet _fwoom,_ it flew open to reveal a dark, empty apartment.

“See?” said Castiel. “Not home.”

He let Dean into the room ahead of him, and Dean stood off to the side awkwardly as Castiel shut the door behind him and went about turning on lights. Two lamps flickered to life and illuminated Castiel’s small apartment. It was cramped but comfortable, with brown shag carpeting, a sofa and a number of chairs, all varying styles and colors and levels of comfort, a small box television and two bookcases. The lime colored paint on the walls was aged and there were drip stains from the ceiling here and there, but other than this, the room was in decent shape. A tiny counter separated the kitchen area from the living area, and to the right, three doors led to the apartment’s two bedrooms and bathroom.

“Nice pad,” said Dean unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” Castiel responded, straightening up. “Yeah, it’s somewhere to live, at least.”

“Hey, it’s a big step up from where I been staying.” Dean, not seeming to want to elaborate, changed track. “Musta cost a fortune. Who’s your roommate?” 

“Balthazar. Goes to school with me,” answered Castiel.

“Balthazar?” Dean said back with a small laugh. “Everyone around here have weird names?”

Castiel looked at Dean, and Dean blushed. Castiel smiled in amusement.

“You can sit down, you know,” he said.

“Oh,” Dean started, running his palms down his front nervously.

“There’s a hook right there for your coat. I’ll get us drinks. You want something to drink?”

Dean nodded his confirmation, and Castiel went around to their kitchen, reaching into the liquor cabinet while Balthazar’s voice played in his head: _Cognac is perfect for hookups, Cassie, feel free to pour some out if you ever score some tail._ With a huff, Castiel’s hand shifted from the Cognac to a bottle of Merlot. 

Glasses in one hand and bottle of wine and screw in the other, Castiel walked back into the living area to find Dean sitting uncertainly on the edge of the couch. He smiled as Castiel approached.

“Fancy,” he said, eyeing the bottle of wine.

“You like wine?” asked Castiel

“Yeah, but it’s been a while.”

They settled down, Castiel in an armchair and Dean adjacent to him on the sofa. Castiel popped open the wine and poured it into their glasses before handing one to Dean, who took an interested sip, humming at the flavor. Castiel watched Dean before shaking himself and taking a sip of his own wine. It was decent. Cheap but full bodied. Dean turned the bottle to read the label, and then relaxed into his seat, wine in hand. They made eye contact before looking away quickly, and Castiel scrunched up his shoulders while Dean scratched behind his ear. It took a glass of wine and a few brave stabs at conversation from the each of them before they found a rhythm with one another; but once they’d found it, it carried them through the night. Castiel soon forgot the strangeness of the situation in the low, rough tones of Dean’s voice as he began to speak, as his facade fell away.

It was, after all, a strange situation -- stubborn kindness had a way of creating unlikely circumstances -- but it didn’t feel strange. Here, in these four walls, with sounds from the street below playing mutely in the background as he learned about this beautiful young man, Castiel found himself more at ease, more at peace with life than he had in a long, long time.

Tonight, Dean seemed more genuine. He had a shy, flustered, clever charm about him that sometimes transformed into bright eyed enthusiasm. As the night went on, Castiel learned about how Dean had a little brother, the person he loved most on this Earth, and he told Castiel about how his brother Sam was going to make the world a better place. They’d be together again, once Dean had his feet under him, and he’d be able to pay Sam’s way through school; and maybe, someday, they could move away from here. Somewhere with cleaner air, Dean said, and fewer people. He could open up a bar, but not one like _The Terminal_ \-- his bar would be clean and inviting and the people in it would be friendly, and the beers on tap craft beers, and there’d be quality stuff on the top shelf. He’d run it. He had a flair for business, he explained, with a smile full of mixed emotion.

More quietly he talked about how things were temporary, about how he hadn’t had these plans. How life had been strange and indiscriminate in its unkindness. Thoughtfully his finger traced the rim of the wine glass, and one instance he burst with delight when his motions caused the glass to sing with deep, bright reverberations. The lights hung in his eyes like stars, and they seemed more a reflection of his soul than they did the lamps lit around them.

Carried on the coaxing perfume of red wine and in the inviting warmth of his guest, Castiel found himself speaking of his own life as well. He told Dean how he wanted to heal people, and how lucky he’d been that his dream lined up with his family’s expectations; but that he would have chased that future with or without their approval, because it is all he’d ever imagined himself doing. It was how he could help. He talked about living with Balthazar, someone with whom he couldn’t be any less alike and yet got along with wonderfully, and how classes were dull and his parents cold. Dean listened and laughed when Castiel told him about what Meg had once convinced him to do at a party, smiling with understanding when Castiel confessed his and Meg’s friendship to be a complicated one. 

Conversation wandered closer to how they’d met, and it was Castiel’s turn to grow quieter as he told Dean why he’d ventured so far out of his usual territory to Eighth Avenue the week before. He shared his fears, and the leveled, aching indifference of losing someone you’d loved in the thinnest way; and soon he was on the couch with Dean, as Dean spoke about his father, about how losing him had felt something of the same.

New thoughts circled Castiel’s mind, though they were abstract, more like strokes of color than thoughts.

They were talking about names when it happened.

“Castiel is an angel,” Castiel said. “Shield of God, it means. My family is religious.”

“Weird,” said Dean.

“And,” Castiel started, hesitating on how he would word this. “And ‘Dean’ is your name? Your real name?”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, name’s Dean. I’m a hooker but I don’t do the name thing. Most John’s don’t give a fuck what my name is anyways.”

“Oh,” Castiel mumbled, glancing at Dean.

“Dean Winchester,” said Dean unexpectedly. “That’s my full name. Dean Winchester.”

With a grin, Dean extended a hand, as though they were just meeting.

“Castiel Novak,” said Castiel, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile.

They shook hands. The handshake was too slow, too familiar, and lasted too long. When they finally let go, it was to blush at their reluctance to separate, trading looks and awkward laughs. Lapsing into silence, the air became heavy around Castiel as Dean’s hand crept innocently from his own lap to Castiel’s hand. Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut at the contact, and then opened again as he fixed them on Dean, whose irises had never looked greener than they did now. Closer, closer they became, and Castiel hadn’t ever wanted anything more in his life. But not like this. Inches apart, he stopped, shook his head, and pulled away.

“I can’t, Dean,” he whispered. “Not here, not after paying you. I don’t want…”

There was tension in Dean’s brow as he listened to Castiel.

“C’mon,”Dean said playfully, his hand wandering from Castiel’s hand to his leg, up his chest, stroking his jaw and coming to rest at his chin. Chills rippled over Castiel’s skin, and his breath gave an involuntary shudder, but his resolve was strong.

“Really,” he said forcefully, gently brushing Dean’s hand away.

“It’s just--” Dean bleated before regaining his poise. “I just don’t like owing people. Don’t like favors. Please, let me. I want it. I do.”

“Dean,” Castiel sighed. “It’s not that I’m not -- look. You don’t owe me. This was me cancelling _my_ debt to you. I don’t want to feel as though I am buying your affections.”

“I don’t need to be saved, you know,” Dean said bitterly, an old shadow crossing his face. “I don’t want your pity.”

“And you don’t have it,” Castiel replied, truthfully. He didn’t pity Dean, or judge him.

“Sure,” Dean said, without sounding as though he believed it.

“I have your company. It’s more than enough.” 

It was everything, Castiel thought privately. It had meant everything.

Somehow, much later, Castiel had managed to convince Dean to take the bed. Perhaps the wine had knocked the fight out of him. Just as Castiel was settling onto the couch, warm under a knitted kaftan they kept folded in a basket for just such an occasion, he heard the creak of floorboards and the slow open of his own bedroom door.

Footsteps.

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice was shy, uncertain. Self conscious. Quickly, Castiel perked up his head and looked to the doorframe, where a Dean in only boxers and a white undershirt was silhouetted, hair sticking up every which way. Castiel frowned suspiciously, expecting another attempt by Dean to “pay him back”.

“Yeah?” he shot back, readying his offense.

“I-- heh,” Dean said nervously, scratching his neck. “This is stupid, but I thought, why not ask, what’ve I got to lose here, right?”

He sounded very much as though he was talking himself into something. 

“Well, could you, maybe, come and stay with me?” he said, so shyly he was nearly mumbling.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. This certainly sounded like another attempt at seduction.

“Dean, I’ve already said—”

But Dean cut him short.

“I’m not asking for that. I just thought it would be nice. To have someone close, I mean.”

Castiel’s protests die before leaving his lips. “Of course,” he said softly, rising from the couch.

Tentatively, Castiel followed Dean back into his little bedroom, where the covers were already pulled back on the bed. He climbed onto the mattress only once Dean had settled down. He slid in next to him, not quite near enough to touch, laying on his back. Sleepless minutes passed and Castiel heard Dean’s breathing slow and deepen, a quiet snore punctuating the silence every now and then. It was almost as if Castiel could see his own thoughts winding before him, long thin lines of text spiraling gracefully above him. He couldn’t shake the feeling of having found something that night, though he was yet to figure out what. Warmth blossomed in his chest as he thought back on the little things he’d noticed about Dean during their night together -- how he was uncommonly dedicated to his loved ones, how his sense of humor was best experienced in quiet conversation. How his laughter rang like church bells.

Castiel turned his head to look at Dean, who was beautiful in the slatted light coming through the blinds. His eyelashes fanned over his cheeks, and the freckles Castiel had tried in vain to count under the influence of wine stood out starkly against fair skin.

And Castiel wanted him, but differently than how he had wanted him before.

* * *


	4. Morning After Nothing

Castiel woke to the sound of Dean’s soft snores, and opened his eyes to find rays of sunlight streaming in through the window. Dean looked peaceful in his sleep, and Castiel tried to be as quiet as possible as he got up from the bed and pulled on some clothes. He crept from the room, shutting the door behind him and turning to find Balthazar sitting matter-of-factly in his armchair.

“What are you doing awake?” Castiel said, scrutinizing his roommate. He didn’t remember hearing Balthazar coming home the night before, meaning he’d done so long after Castiel had fallen asleep. And yet here he was, wide awake and up before Castiel. “Do you ever sleep at all?”

“The question is not, Cassie, whether or not I sleep, but whether or not you were too busy last night to sleep yourself,” Balthazar replied lightly.

“What?”

Balthazar nodded at the far wall, where a brown leather jacket hung from a hook. “Whose jacket is that, darling?” 

He said it with a satisfied smirk.

Castiel glared at Balthazar, who inclined his head to Castiel in return. He wore black slacks, a tailored white shirt, and a scarf, looking more dressed for a tour of the Louvre than he did for lounging around an apartment. A fat, french novel was held open against his crossed legs, but Castiel had become his new preferred source of entertainment.

He watched Castiel, still smirking, as Castiel shuffled grumpily into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. Honestly, Castiel was surprised Balthazar had made it this long without needling him again, but his restraint lasted only a few more seconds.

“Oh come on, Cassie. How often do you bring somebody home? Once a year? Never? I have so little to gossip about when it comes to you. I want details.”

It wasn’t that Castiel was concerned that Balthazar would take issue with him sleeping with another man -- God knew Balthazar got around enough himself -- but he dreaded the teasing that would be to come. That, and Dean could be spared the knowing comments and smarmy attitude.  _ Nothing had happened, anyways. _

Possibly awoken by the sound of voices, Castiel heard a groan from his bedroom and a creak of floorboards as Dean got up from bed. The door swung open, revealing a groggy Dean Winchester in wrinkled boxer shorts and a bare torso, clothes bundled under one arm. Balthazar gave a low whistle. Castiel felt his neck burn.

“Bathroom?” Dean grunted, blinking profusely in the bright light.

“There,” said Castiel, pointing to the door to the right of him. 

Dean offered his thanks and lumbered into the bathroom.

“Nice going, Castiel!” Balthazar congratulated, smiling broadly. “What a specimen.”

“Shut up,” Castiel snapped. 

Balthazar rolled his eyes, looking pleased with himself as he turned the page of his book. Castiel almost opened his mouth to explain, but in the same moment, decided against it. Instead he stood waiting for the coffee, casting disgruntled looks his roommate’s way, who was still smiling even as he read on. Emerging a minute or so later fully dressed, face dripping with water from a morning wash and looking marginally more awake, Dean padded towards Castiel.

“Good morning,” he said with a smile.

“Good morning,” Castiel said back.

Dean smiled and stretched, looking towards the window on the opposite arm. “I never sleep in this much anymore. I miss it,” he said, to no one in particular.

“Want coffee?” Castiel asked. He added, “Oh, and Dean, that’s my roommate, Balthazar. Balthazar, Dean.”

Balthazar wiggled his fingers in a prissy sort of greeting, still with that smirk plastered to his face. Dean gave him an awkward ‘hello’.

“Coffee? And something to eat?” Castiel asked Dean, who was eyeing the coffee pot.

“Uh,” said Dean, stalling and looking reluctant.

“I’m feeding you,” Castiel said forcefully, giving him a stern look.

“Okay,” Dean ceded, pulling a hand over his hair.

“Toast sound alright? It’s the only thing I can make without burning down the building.”

“And he’s come close to it a few times, with just the toast,” Balthazar chimed in. At Castiel’s sullen look, he went on: “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know it’s true.”

Dean laughed, and suddenly, Castiel was no longer upset with Balthazar’s comment.

“You know, I’m not too bad behind the stove myself,” Dean said, looking at the grates. “I used to make some mean pancakes.”

A few minutes passed and the toast was finished, and Castiel buttered a stack for Dean. The coffee had had a chance to cool off, and so they sat at the little counter, sipping from their mugs. Balthazar watched them over his book in amusement, not having turned a page in over ten minutes. Their breakfast was mostly had in silence, Castiel having opted for a banana rather than toast for himself. Dean begrudgingly took the banana offered to him, but once he had it he ate it uncomplainingly; and if Castiel wasn’t mistaken, Dean seemed to consciously be trying to slow himself down as he finished his plate. Worryingly, Castiel wondered when his last meal had been.

Once their coffee had been drunk and their food finished, the quiet became weighted with uncertainty.

“I--”

Both he and Dean had spoken at the same time, and they each fell silent, looking at one another quickly. Dean coughed.

“I think I’d better go,” Dean said, looking strangely apologetic.

“Yes,” said Castiel, mentally shaking himself, “yeah, alright. I can walk you out.” 

All Dean had to do before leaving was slip his shoes back on and put on his jacket. Castiel only bothered with his shoes. Feeling Balthazar’s eyes on his back, he and Dean exited the little apartment into the musty hallway. They hadn’t shared another word since they’d sat at the counter, and Castiel was increasingly aware of this as they made their reticent way down three flights of stairs to the ground floor hallway. Castiel was a few steps behind Dean, watching the back of his head and teetering on the verge of speech when Dean came to a dead stop. He looked back at Castiel over his shoulder before turning with his gaze, until their faces were only inches apart.

And Dean kissed him. It was tender, slow and gentle, with affectionate and unhurried hands at one another’s back, lips brushing sweetly. A kiss nothing like those which they’d shared in the dark alleyway. It was taking its time, trying to say something without words; and Castiel thought he understood.

“I’m off the clock now,” Dean said upon parting. “That was all my decision.”

Breathlessly, Castiel looked into Dean’s face, and saw a wellspring of fondness in the green eyes, still so close to him.

“Thank you, Castiel,” said Dean. “Thanks for everything.”

With this Dean turned and went. Castiel watched him go, denim and brown leather and gold-dappled hair, until he turned a corner and disappeared from sight. Again he knew a warmth blossoming in his chest that he couldn’t give a name to, and it seemed to make him float a little, even with the ever-present anchor of reason that held him to the ground. He had half a mind to go after Dean, to chase that feeling, but he did not. He went back up the stairs with a faint smile on his face.

Castiel was happy all that day, until he found it. 

Hours later, after putting on his trenchcoat before heading out, he felt something in his breast pocket. He pulled from its depths something that had been neatly tucked there: a twenty, two tens, and two fives.  


***

Castiel would spend most of the next week hardly paying attention to any of his classes. He had tried, in vain, to convince himself that his fixation on Dean was for the sole purpose of getting him the money he’d left; but it was more than that, much more, and Castiel knew it. There was something there too big for him to deal with here; because when he fantasized, his mind went not back to the alleyway and the dirty pleasures stolen there, but to his own bedroom, where they had done nothing but lie next to each other beneath linen sheets. Time moved sluggishly as he went from class to class, waiting for each to end only to have another to struggle through with blank eyes and a mind that was far, far away. 

He was resisting the temptation to return to  _ The Terminal. _ Somehow, it no longer seemed the place for him to seek out what he was looking for; but as the days went by and the twenty, two tens, and two fives remained tucked in his breast pocket, it became more and more difficult to resist. His mind seemed stuck in the same endless loop -- hung up on Dean Winchester, puzzling over his actions. How was it he could be so prideful, so stubborn? So dead set on facing the world alone? It was maddening, this fixation, and by Thursday Castiel was sure that if he didn’t do something soon, he’d go crazy. 

It wasn’t until a dragging afternoon lecture that Castiel managed to put it together. A million times he’d gone over his two nights with Dean in his head, and he could have kicked himelf for not working it out sooner: Missouri knew Dean. Somehow, she knew Dean, and the week before he’d learned this, he’d been told exactly where to find both Missouri and Pamela if he ever wanted to visit. 

Well, he certainly did want to pay them a visit now -- it was a slim chance they would know where Dean could be found, but something was better than nothing. That evening as the sun hung low over the skyline, Castiel walked quickly down the avenues, Missouri’s words echoing in his head: 

_ “Come by sometime. It’s just past Antoni’s. Got a big ‘ol pink sign on it that says ‘PSYCHIC’. Hard to miss.” _

Antoni’s Pizza came and went as Castiel moved as if pursued, propelled by the possibility of some sort of closure. He scanned the storefronts that followed until, near the end of the block, he spotted it. Blazing in one of the windows was a bright pink neon sign that read: ‘PSYCHIC’. A smaller sign near it flashed, telling Castiel the place was open. After barely slowing Castiel veered towards the steps leading to the door, which he pushed open roughly, causing its bell to clang loudly. Hardly taking in his low lit, heavily draped surroundings, Castiel marched to the front desk where Pamela sat, and spoke without pretense.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said, bluntly. 

“Ah, Castiel,” Pamela mused, sinuously unwinding her crossed legs. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Castiel stared, taken aback.

“You-- you did?” he stuttered.

“Ha-ha,” she chuckled. “No, not really. It’s just a thing we say to sound extra mysterious. It’s good to  _ not _ see you, Castiel.”

Castiel attempted to force a laugh at the joke. Pamela gave every impression of wanting to continue, so Castiel gathered himself together again and pressed on.

“Pamela, I’m looking for someone.”

“So you said.”

“Dean Winchester.”

She seemed taken off guard. Her eyebrows traveled up her forehead, and her smile fell into a small frown. It was a moment before she responded.

“What?” she asked, shaking her head a bit.

“Dean Winchester, I am looking for him. Do you know him?” Castiel asked, watching her closely.

“Yes, I know Dean,” she said, carefully. “Are you friends?”

“Uh,” Castiel began, searching for words. “Not exactly, no. I just owe him money.”

Pamela’s demeanor shifted subtly, and her arms crossed over her chest. 

“It wasn’t like that,” he elaborated quickly, guessing what had caused her to bristle. He fought the embarrassed heat that was rising in his cheeks. “He left money behind. I mean…”

He trailed off, giving up on explaining himself.

“You’re looking for Dean, so you can pay him back,” Pamela said slowly, and though she could not see, Castiel felt as though he’d been fixed with a cold, penetrating stare.

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed.

“Well,” she went on, “Dean comes by from time to time. Missouri and I try to look after people like Dean. There are a lot of them around here, and we do what we can.”

She said this all very carefully, leaving unspoken meaning woven between every word. Castiel understood.

“Why don’t you leave the money here, and I can get it to Dean the next time I see him?”

“No. I’m sorry, but I’m not comfortable with that,” he said, doing his best not to sound rude.

Tension was rising like heat in the room. Pamela had faint lines of concern and suspicion in her face now, and absentmindedly, Castiel felt the outline of the bundle of cash through the fabric of his breast pocket.

“Alright,” she sighed, moving her sunglasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know what your deal is, Castiel. I don’t think you mean any harm, but I can’t bank on that.” She made an attempt at laughing, but it fell flat and came to an abrupt halt. “How ‘bout you come back another time?”

Castiel pretended to become interested in a box of rose quartz on the counter to give himself time to think, forgetting that Pamela wouldn’t be able to see him to know he was occupied. He knew, logically, that some stranger marching into a shop and demanding the whereabouts of a male prostitute wouldn’t be welcomed by the owners-- especially, as it seemed, when the shop owners took care of the local sex workers. But there had to be something, some way he could frame the question to get what he wanted without coming off badly. However, nothing came readily to mind.

“All I wanted to ask was...”

But he broke off. What was he looking for, exactly? What did he expect Pamela and Missouri to know? What did he expect them to tell him?

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I know how this must look to you. And I would be lying if I said I thought this through much before coming here. But your friend, Dean, he left something in my possession, and I couldn’t, I  _ wouldn’t _ be able to move on knowing I’d never made it up to him, and-- are you listening to me?”

For Pamela had been fidgeting in her seat, tapping the desk, and turning her head quickly now and then to the back wall, where a dark brown door blended into maroon wallpaper and a spiral staircase rose out of sight. The clock on the wall was nearing seven in the evening.

“What?” she said suddenly, apparently called back to the present. “I’m sorry, sugar, but we’re gonna have to chat another time. I have to see someone -- I mean, you know what I mean -- in a few minutes. Appointment. So why don’t you come back, I don’t know, another day?”

It was phrased politely, but Castiel understood it as a firm dismissal. He stalled.

“Um,” he said, brows furrowed as Pamela’s agitation increased.

“Castiel, please,” she urged, getting to her feet.

Just as Pamela’s chair scraped the floor, another sound came from behind her: the distant reverberation of a door shutting and the thumping of feet on stairs, and two voices getting steadily louder. She and Castiel had both turned towards the noise, Castiel curious, Pamela apprehensive. Lips pursed, she shook her head resignedly. The crystal door knob on the dark wooden door turned, and through it came Missouri. Her hair had been relaxed and styled into a shining, dark bob of curls, which gleamed purple and red in the shop lighting as she looked over her shoulder to speak with someone. She turned to face the room, white teeth revealed in a pleasant smile, looking not the least bit surprised to lay eyes upon Castiel. 

And following her came a handsome young man with sandy brown hair and a leather jacket. His smile vanished upon spotting Castiel, to be replaced by a strangely blank expression.

“Dean?”

Castiel looked from Missouri to Pamela and back to Dean. Pamela appeared tense, and Missouri completely unbothered, even amused.

Dean remained frozen in the doorway as Missouri crossed the carpet to the linoleum tile. She placed a ring-laden hand on Pamela’s shoulder and leaned to whisper something in her ear. 

Pamela listened, and frowned.  _ “Miz,”  _ she said, once Missouri had finished

Missouri just hushed her, and led her towards a curtain.

“You could’ve at least told me beforehand,” Castiel was sure he heard Pamela say before the pair disappeared behind the curtain.

They left Dean and Castiel in complete silence, still several feet apart. The world itself seemed to have come to a shuddering halt, and even the sound of cars outside seemed to have stopped. Seconds stretched to what might as well have been hours as Castiel gazed in disbelief at the man in the doorway, and it felt as though his voice had abandoned him.

“What are you doing here?” quavered Dean, standing stiffly.

When Castiel’s voice returned to him, instead of answering the question, he found himself asking: “Why’d you leave it?”

Stock still, Dean did not respond. Castiel went on. 

“You didn’t take the money. You left it in my coat.” And with that, he reached into his breast pocket, pulling out the small bundle of cash. “I -- I gave this to you. You took it. Why didn’t you keep it?”

Dean said nothing.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, he took a few steps towards Dean, money in hand. “I came here today hoping to learn where I might find you, to get this back to you. There’s ... “

Castiel stuttered into silence again, unnerved by Dean’s lack of response. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, lips slightly parted, a strange muted fear on his face.

“Dean,” Castiel said, glancing at the money in his hand, held out towards Dean. “I gave this to you because I wanted not to have been a burden. To have cost you anything. I didn’t want you leaving me with less than you would’ve had never having met me.” 

But Dean showed no signs of answering, and Castiel began walking towards him again.

“Please,” he implored. “Please, let me. Please, take it.”

A pronounced change came over Dean as Castiel came within a few steps of him. He looked caught between the desire to hit Castiel, and the urge to cry. Castiel experienced a powerful wave of panic and regret at the sight, feeling as though he’d broken something, caused yet another harm. At the moment Castiel stopped in his tracks, Dean took a step back, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling an arm protectively to his chest.

It was then that Castiel noticed the bandages.

“Did someone hurt you?”

The question fell from his lips, sharp and dry. His eyes were on Dean’s wrist, which was splinted and bound with Ace bandages.

“Who hurt you, Dean?” he pressed, feeling something wind tight in his chest, thorny and cold.

He was mad now, mad at the world, mad at whatever cruel hand of fate had decided that Dean was deserving of this life. He  _ wasn’t _ deserving. Castiel looked into glassy green eyes and he saw that Dean didn’t deserve this. None of them did. He felt immobilized, as though his blood had turned to concrete, fixing him in place like a statue. The bills in his hand had been crushed, and Castiel wanted to give them, give all the money he had, give Dean a warm bed for him to sleep in and a beating for whatever greedy stranger had hurt him. But all Castiel could do was stammer again the line that had called all of his attention, that had made him forget everything else.

“Who hurt you?” he repeated.

Something about Castiel’s shock had steadied Dean, and Dean took a breath, letting his arm fall to his side where his sleeve covered his bandages.

“What the hell do you want to know that for, Cas?” said Dean, no real fight in his voice.

Castiel opened his mouth to speak, and found he couldn’t find the words. Dean looked incredibly, profoundly, sad.

“You should go,” Dean said, jaw fixed in place.

“No,” Castiel asserted.

“C’mon.”

“Who hurt you?”

There was a plea in his voice now, he could hear it, clinging to his words like a needy child. Dean dragged his uninjured hand down his face, letting out a breath. He brushed past Castiel who spun on his heel to face him once more, but Dean had only taken a few steps into the room.

“It doesn’t matter who hurt me,” he said, looking Castiel squarely in the face. “And I don’t say that like some self-loathing pansy, like I think I deserve it, or whatever. I say it because it’s true. It doesn’t matter, because nobody’s gonna do anything about it, and I do what I do knowing the risk. That’s part of the job.”

Dean held up his wrist matter-of-factly, showing Castiel the makeshift brace Castiel assumed Missouri had made for him. “Missouri’s bet is that it’s just a sprain. Happened last night. The guy decided to play rougher than we’d agreed.”

A prickly, ugly something reared its head in Castiel’s gut at these words, making him visibly shudder. As hot as it was cold, it stung him. Almost without thought, he tucked the now crumpled money back into his pocket and reached out to Dean.

“Let me,” he said.

After a moment’s hesitation, Dean permitted Castiel to gently take his hand into both of his own. Castiel studied the binding. It had been done well, but still Castiel wanted to unravel the bandages and examine Dean himself, see the damage done, put his learned skills towards making it better. But -- no. No.

“Missouri knows what she is doing,” he said, releasing Dean. “It’s well secured. Please make sure to keep it immobile for six weeks or so, so it has a chance to heal." His words were practiced. It was easier to speak as a medical student than as a man, because there was safety in textbook-learned replies. 

Dean had nodded at his advice, looking as though he were doing it more for Castiel’s benefit than anything else. He was gazing downwards again, and his eyelashes were dark and thick. His clothes were worn, and the bruise that had decorated his cheekbone two weeks before had faded to a pale yellow. Were words all Castiel had to give him?

At this thought, he remembered why he had come in the first place; because he had more to give, if only Dean would let him

“Dean,” he intoned.

“I’m fine,” Dean said quickly. “I know you wanna save me. But you’ve gotta let me make my own choices.”

“I didn’t-- it’s not like that.”

“Sure it is. I know how this goes, Cas. I sell my body to strange men so I don’t starve to death. People who don’t hate me pity me, and the rest of ‘em fuck me,” he said dryly, unapologetically. “You’re a good guy. You really, really are, but you don’t get it. You can’t get it. And, God, if there’s one person I’d want not to see me as a thing that’s gotta be rescued, it’d be you. I wanna be a person, Cas. And I don’t know why I’m being so nice about this. You just--”

Dean looked into Castiel’s face now, his eyes full of a softness that caused something monumental to shift inside of Castiel.

“Damnit, I don’t know. I don’t know,” Dean said, shaking his head, unsmiling. “Why’d you come here, Cas? How’s it that you keep finding me?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel echoed.

“You’ve gotta stop looking for me. This isn’t -- whatever this is,” and he gestured between them, “can’t be a thing. You’re too… fucking hell, man, there are things we can have and there are things that are just stupid to want, and… I listened to you. You’ve got a life, a future. You’re going places. You can’t keep showing up around here, looking for a rent boy to give money to.”

It was written in Dean’s face, the truth that Castiel had to accept. This would have to end. This was out of his reach, and had never really been his to hold.

“Okay,” Castiel said, deciding in that instant what to do. “I understand. This,” and he mimicked Dean’s gesture between them, “can’t be ‘a thing’. The problem is, I’m stubborn. Very, very stubborn, and once I’ve made my mind up on something, there’s no going back.”

Making a show of flexing his hand, he closed the distance that had blossomed between them once more.

“So, if you want me to leave you alone, there’s only one thing you can do,” he continued, slowly extracting the wrinkled money from his breast pocket. “Take this. Take this money, and you’ll never see me again. But keep refusing, and you’ll never be rid of me. I’m stubborn like that. So if you ever want another moment’s peace, take the money; and I’ll walk out this door right now, and never bother you again.” He sighed, steeling himself. “Do we have a deal?”

For what felt like the hundredth time, Castiel stood staunchly before Dean, holding a twenty, two ten, and two five dollar bills out to him.

And strangely, miraculously, completely inexplicably, Dean laughed. He was smiling a real smile, his expression light hearted.

“Fair enough,” he said, chuckling. “Sure, you’ve got a deal.” He put out a hand before quickly retracting it. “Wait just a moment, though. I have one condition.”

Castiel frowned, tilting his head. His confusion had evidently shown, for Dean gave another chuckle before going on.

“Before I take a single dollar, you’ve gotta promise me one thing: that I’m gonna see you again.”

Castiel merely blinked. “W-what?”

“Promise me we can see each other again some time,” said Dean patiently, “y’know, somewhere away from all of this.”

Castiel was stunned. Dean Winchester was freckled and beautiful, and within his reach after all.

He gave the faintest of smiles, and deposited the money into Dean’s palm.

“Of course,” Castiel replied.

* * *


	5. In the Light

The springtime was getting warmer, and Castiel hadn’t been down 8th Avenue in weeks. But he’d seen Dean in the time that had passed, in places where the sunlight reached the ground and cleansed the people, where the air was fresher and the streets friendlier. He’d had the pleasure of knowing Dean as he had that night in his apartment: through conversation and polite distance, over little tables outside Itlalian diners, side by side on blankets laid out on the grass, listening to music. Seeing Dean in the sun made Castiel realize that he was more a creature of the daytime than the night, what with the warmth of his smile, the freckles that dusted his skin. They’d started anew, and Castiel liked it that way.

Dean didn’t bring up his work and Castiel didn’t ask about it, but it wasn’t the sort of unspoken thing that weighed heavily on the silences and haunted their shared moments. No, it was more of a truth that had been woven into their understanding of one another, something that had been important to make clear but of no consequence when spending time with one another, and it only ever crept into Castiel’s mind when they parted. He knew that someday, if they kept seeing each other, Castiel would have to voice those worries that rose when Dean left; but for now, knowing Dean was only waiting for something better to come along and would take it when he did was enough for Castiel.

The trees of Central Park had burst green and vibrant with new leaves, and as the trees filled out, so did the city. More faces appeared in windows, fewer coats covered the bodies of those on the streets, people moved with less haste, no longer chased by bitter cold. A sort of pleasant awkwardness had been present upon first getting together, but they’d since become good friends. It all frightened Castiel, because though the most intimately they had touched since their kiss in his apartment building had been arms on the other’s shoulder, Castiel could feel his heart reaching out like a climbing vine to entwine itself in Dean’s world. But he wouldn’t admit the truth to himself. Not yet. 

Just then they were walking along closed shop fronts, street lamps lighting their way. They hadn’t made any plans for that night, and had spent it wandering Morningside Heights, talking to one another. Castiel couldn’t ever remember talking so much in his life, but beside him Dean was listening interestedly and Castiel found himself telling old stories about his brothers, explaining what an echocardiogram was, complaining about the time he’d walked in on Balthazar and three other people in their living room.

Hours passed by uncommented upon, and above them the few stars bright enough to show through the city’s haze glittered like sparsely scattered diamonds. Neither said anything about parting. It was something like holding his breath, waiting for Dean to end their time together. If Dean were to dismiss him, Castiel could yet again quiet the want within him and choose to be content with what he’d gotten; but Dean said nothing, and soon the night became too heavy for either to speak. They walked on without destination, shoulders brushing every now and then, stealing glances at one another. And like the rising tide, or an earthquake shaking his foundations, Castiel felt the desire glow bright within him again-- like it had that evening in the park, like it had the night they had said goodbye at a bus stop. He wanted to kiss Dean. He felt the need ensnare his mind like hunger, like thirst, and he wanted Dean so badly it seemed to press upon his lungs.

And as though the thought had been silently shared between them, Dean’s hand was at his wrist, bringing him to a stop. Castiel turned to face the younger man. Dean’s eyes were dark, but in them was something warm, like faintly glowing embers.

“Wanna go somewhere more private?” Dean said, voice low.

Castiel was scanning Dean’s face, taking in the lids at half mast, the way his lip was just barely caught between his teeth. His heart skipped a beat.

“Yes,” Castiel replied.

“Your place?” Dean asked, just as softly.

“Yes,” said Castiel, again.

They set off once more, already headed in the right direction. The sound of their feet beating the pavement seemed to call the attention of the whole street, and Castiel could not help but turn to be sure they were not being watched. It was all in Castiel’s head, of course, but the paranoia he felt reflected itself in his environment; and suddenly the night had eyes, as if the city saw them, suspected them. What it was they had was not wanted by the world, but there were things more precious than that which could be had out in the open. Things that made someone whole. Fighting off the impulse to take Dean’s hand in his own, they closed the distance between themselves and the apartment. Castiel felt the tide continue to rise within him, and still he quickened his pace, eager to gain the privacy of the indoors. Dean matched his stride.

Something was building between them, and it felt so strong Castiel was afraid it could be seen. Their hands touched briefly as they crossed a street, and the ghost of the touch accompanied Castiel all the way to the front steps of his apartment building. He could hear Dean’s breathing as he fumbled with his key ring, their standing forms close enough together that Castiel could feel his warmth. Cursing under his breath, he finally got the key to bite and turned it, pushing the door open to reveal the low-lit first floor. Dean followed him in, and the sound of the street outside was muted almost immediately as the door shut.

Castiel wasted no time. He had no patience for pretence. Once Dean had cleared the threshold and the street was blocked from view, Castiel stepped toe to toe with him, faces only inches apart. He looked into Dean’s pretty eyes and let out a soft laugh, like sigh of relief. With a smile as Dean’s consent, Castiel kissed him.

The things that had been growing in their time together collided in Castiel’s mind like so many waves on a shoreline, crashing and melting back into a great expanse of blue. It was a kiss entirely different from the last one they had shared in this same spot; it was not a parting kiss, but a promise of things to come. It was passionate; but not burning with blind lust as the kisses they’d shared in the alleyway had been. Strong arms surrounded him as he held tighter to the man in his embrace, his own eyes closed so he might feel that much more deeply. 

A faint moan escaped Dean’s throat as the kiss intensified, and Castiel let his hands fall from the small of Dean’s back to the curve of his ass. It was becoming too much for them to stay in this vulnerable spot, and the sting of regret upon parting was worth their final destination. Sharing a meaningful look, they half ran together towards the staircase, breathing heavy as they climbed them to the third floor.

The only sound once they reached it was their own breathing. Above them, the hall light buzzed as Castiel unlocked the door and shoved it open in one smooth movement. And to Castiel’s complete surprise, sitting in his chair with his book and most definitely not out clubbing, was Balthazar. Balthazar glanced up from the page as the door creaked open, eyebrows raising at the sight of the two men silhouetted in the doorway. Seconds passed by as silently, they stared at one another, until, with decided nonchalance, Balthazar looked back down at the book, shifted comfortably in his seat, and went on reading.

Taking this as a sign, Castiel unfroze and stumbled into the room. Dean was looking at him quizzically, obviously not sure what to make of Balthazar, so Castiel decided to prove that his roommate wouldn’t mind -- he took Dean’s face in one of his hands and gave him a deep, filthy kiss. Castiel chose to ignore the smirk on Balthazar’s face as they came level with him, hand in hand, and went into the bedroom.

Castiel’s room was cramped as ever, the bed messily made and books piled precariously on a chest shoved against the wall. His mattress took up most of the space, and a tiny closet held most of his clothes. 

Behind him, the latch bolt clicked and Castiel turned on instinct, catching Dean’s eye as he looked up from the knob. Castiel glanced away quickly and wanting to busy himself with something, he edged to his desk and stooped to look through a milk crate full of records.

“Music?” he asked the room, as he thumbed through old albums.

“Sure,” Dean’s voice came from somewhere to his right.

Castiel’s fingers came to rest on the dusky green edge of _Pink Moon,_ which he pulled from the crate and slipped from its cover. Fitting it onto the turntable he lowered the needle onto the record, and crackling through the speakers came the soft sound of a lone acoustic guitar.

“The hell is this?” 

Straightening up, Castiel’s courage to turn and face Dean came in the form of confusion.

“It’s Nick Drake,” he answered.

Dean laughed. 

“What?” Castiel shot back, a bit defensively.

“Nothing,” Dean said, laughter fading into speech. “You’re about to score, and your pick for a soundtrack is some obscure, hippy-dippy folk music. You’re just sorta weird, is all ”

“And you’re sort of a dick,” Castiel shot back, smarting at the jab.

With the low light, and the self-satisfied smirk on Dean’s face, and the way the tension sat powerful in Castiel’s gut, he might as well have been back at _The Terminal._ And then Dean’s smirk gave way to a gentle half-smile, and Castiel remembered again that this wasn’t that dark night so many weeks ago; that this was his room, warm and safe and far from that desperation, and he and that stranger were now friends. More than friends.

Low and melodic, the lyrics joined the strumming, and Castiel flexed the hand as he looked at Dean, who looked back. He would not approach, however. It would be Dean’s choice. And choose Dean did, for he crossed the floor towards Castiel. But before he could get too close, Castiel caught his shoulder and held him there.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“O’course, Cas,” Dean replied, unsmiling.

Castiel relaxed his arm, so Dean could approach. Dean’s face was half lit, half in shadow, the handsome lines of it bathed in the yellow of streetlights and cloaked in the darkness of the room. He raked the face of his lover, trying to remember its every beautiful detail, and he did so unrestrained, for Dean’s eyes were doing the same to him. Dean’s lips parted, their pink seam revealing the edge of teeth and a hint of tongue. He leaned in, eyes fluttering shut.

They kissed. It was slow and sweet and oddly shy, mouths taking turns to chase the other. Smooth intakes of breath as a hand settled at Castiel’s back, and they stayed this way for several seconds. Castiel could smell Dean, a scent he’d become accustomed to these past few weeks, and he felt centered for the first time in years, as though someone had put his pieces in perfect alignment. Somehow Castiel forgot the desire for anything more than Dean’s lips as they held each other in the dark room, but it came back to him when Dean pulled away. They rested their foreheads together, and Castiel’s hands fell to Dean’s waist as Dean wrapped one arm over Castiel’s shoulder and placed his other hand on his chest. They would have been dancing, had they been swaying to the rhythm.

Why they’d slowed down Castiel wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t complaining. They kissed again, with more intensity this time, flashes of tongue joining the movement of lips, and Dean’s fingertips pressed into Castiel’s chest. Hums and sighs were shared between their mouths, Dean’s clever tongue moving velvet soft over his upper lip before he sucked Castiel’s lower lip languidly. Castiel had handfuls of Dean’s shirt in his grip, and as the blood in his body seemed to burn hot he pulled Dean closer, until there was scarcely an inch of them not pressed firmly against the other.

Their stubble caught together, the roughness so different from the softness that was Dean’s mouth, and chasing the contrast, Castiel kissed away from his mouth, peppering kisses and sweeps of his tongue along his jawline, to his earlobe and neck. Dean threw his head back to encourage the movement, Adam's apple bobbing. He moaned at a particularly long, dirty kiss that sucked a faintly pink mark onto his neck. Dean’s hands were moving as well, the thumb on Castiel’s chest rubbing sensual circles over his sternum and collarbone. 

Dean’s skin was soft below the stubble, and Castiel’s mind wandered from what his lips were doing to his hands, which were passing up and down Dean’s back. On his next pass he brought them down to feel the hardness in Dean’s jeans. Dean made a surprised sound, his hold on Castiel tightening. 

“Hey,” hissed Dean, and Castiel stopped quickly and pulled back. But Dean didn’t let him retreat far, keeping his hand at his shoulder. “Never seen you with that shirt off before.”

Castiel’s breath caught in his chest as Dean’s thumb moved past his collar and to the skin of his neck.

“Do ya think that, maybe,” Dean went on, a flirtatious glint in his eyes, “you could slip out of it for me?”

Castiel brought a hand to his chin thoughtfully, looking Dean over.

“Sure,” he said. “But you first.”

Dean’s brows raised, and the hand on Castiel’s collar tensed.

“Uh,” said Dean.

In passing, Castiel noted the curiosity of a sex worker becoming flustered at being asked to remove his shirt. 

“Here,” Castiel said, taking up a handful of the flannel shirt Dean wore over a tee. “Let me help.”

“You’re a pervert,” said Dean with a chuckle, and Castiel fought the smirk that was pulling at his lip. Taking liberties to feel up as much of Dean’s exposed skin as he went, he pushed the flannel off of Dean’s shoulders as Dean wriggled his arms out of its sleeves. 

“Better?” asked Dean, quirking an eyebrow.

“Mmm,” Castiel hummed. “No.”

Dean shook his head, looking half sheepish, half amused. He reached up for the back of his shirt, pausing to flick his eyes to Castiel, to see his reaction. Deftly, he pulled the shirt off and turned his head to Castiel, letting the shirt swing where he held it. Still so cocky. He knew what this did to people, Castiel thought, as he took in the way Dean held himself. He knew just how tempting he was. Castiel registered that he was seeing more of Dean’s skin than he had yet had the pleasure to look at. His body was young and lean, lightly muscled, and almost completely smooth. There was scarcely a hair on him. Castiel licked his lips, experiencing a headrush as blood went southward.

They stood facing each other, silent as the next track began to play. Tentatively, Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s now bare shoulder, running it down to his wrist, feeling the lines of his body, the heat that emanated off of his skin. Other hand at Dean’s waist, he savored the feeling of skin on skin, and celebrated the freedom with which his touch could explore this body. There was no need to hurry. They could take their time.

And how he wanted to take his time with getting to know Dean’s flesh. He could happily spend the whole night -- or longer -- tracing every inch of this skin with his hands, his lips, his tongue, and he couldn’t begin to express his gratitude that somehow, he’d earned this chance to do so. He hadn’t even looked back up to Dean’s face as he walked him back towards the bed, and with an involuntary sort of gasp Dean’s knees went out from under him as he sank onto the mattress. Castiel hummed his satisfaction as he splayed a hand over Dean’s heart.

When he finally met Dean’s eyes once more, it was to find them round and wide. His lips were parted in a little “O”, and he looked up at Castiel in something bordering on awe. This time, Castiel did not stop the smirk that crept onto his face.

Putting a knee on the bed between Dean’s thighs, Castiel pushed himself up onto the bed as he pushed Dean backwards. Crouching over Dean, and marveling at the sight of Dean beneath him, Castiel swooped down onto his lips, kissing him deeply, tongues sweeping over one another. He did not linger at Dean’s lips, however. 

Castiel moved down his neck to his collarbone, kissing the boney part of his shoulder, tasting where the flesh became softer at his chest. His mouth soon found Dean’s nipple, which inspired the first drawn out moan of the night. Castiel flicked his tongue lightly over the sensitive nub, until Dean was squirming with pleasure beneath him. His chest was rising and falling more rapidly as Castiel crossed over to his other nipple before dropping his head to Dean’s abdomen. To kiss him properly he had to drop his knee off the bed for leverage, and this change and position seemed to prompt Dean into speech.

“Hey now, what about you?”

Dean had shifted up onto his elbows, and he was frowning at Castiel.

“What do you mean?” Castiel snapped. He was annoyed at the pause in the action.

“I said I wanted to see you with your shirt off,” Dean complained, and he was so close to pouting that Castiel forgot his irritation.

He rolled his eyes anyways, however. “Fine.”

“Now don’t be all pissy about it. You want this or not?”

“Of course I-- why are you being like this?”

“Like what?” Dean shot.

They glared at each other for a moment, and in another moment, Dean smiled.

“You’re the worst,” said Castiel, unbuttoning his topmost button. As it snapped out of place the smile was wiped from Dean’s face. He watched Castiel’s progress, transfixed, and Castiel felt a surge of gratification at the sight. Shirtfront open now, he slipped his shoulders from the fabric and let the shirt fall to the floor.

Dean scrambled up from his reclined position and pulled Castiel’s face level with his. They kissed, Dean’s hands taking the opportunity to map Castiel’s skin. The grip on his arm was almost hard enough to bruise, but Castiel revelled in the intensity of it as he licked into Dean’s mouth. He went into a crouch, holding tight to Dean’s thigh, not hesitating as he dropped his attention to Dean’s torso. Above him, Dean went quiet. His hands had left Castiel’s body.

“Dean?” he asked, looking up, his mouth hovering at Dean’s waistline.

Dean didn’t answer, and slowly, Castiel traced a goosebump trail down Dean’s stomach until his fingers hooked in his waistband. His palm came to rest, flat and broad over the bulge in his jeans.

“Will you let me?” he asked, in a whisper. _Let me show you what you mean to me,_ he finished, in his mind.

Dean nodded, and swallowed. Castiel bit his lip.

He palmed Dean’s growing erection through his jeans, and undid the fly. Slowly, rapturously, he pulled the jeans from Dean’s hips as he lifted his bottom from the bed, and shimmied them down his legs before pulling them off completely. Dean sat, propped up on his arm, breathing rapidly as Castiel ran his hands over the muscles of his legs to his inner thighs. He was beautiful, and Castiel felt a lump of emotion rise in his throat as he looked over the body before him, naked but for gray cotton briefs.

His own heart rate was increasing as he thought about what he was about to do; but there was no anxiety, no inhibition to hold him back as he went now for the waistband of Dean’s underwear. Hands holding the firmness of Dean’s hips, he tasted the soft flesh below his navel, kissing to his hipbone and then again to the light hairs that disappeared beneath the fabric of his underwear. A moment of eye contact as confirmation and Castiel eased the briefs from Dean’s hips, stomach doing a small somersault as he laid eyes on the fat erection sitting in Dean’s lap. The cotton briefs were quickly forgotten on the carpet as Castiel took Dean’s cock in his grasp. He kissed the tender flesh at the base of it, where the curve of his thigh met his groin, and unashamedly, Dean moaned, throwing his head back. The sound of it was enough to bring Castiel close, if he would let himself.

He wanted to mark Dean, leave pink bruises of his love on the pale skin beneath his lips, but he remained gentle, lapping at the sweet taste of his thigh and listening to the sounds coming from the mouth of his lover. He barely stroked Dean’s cock as he familiarized himself with the flesh nearby, and the hand that clamped itself around his wrist was the sign of impatience that Castiel was looking for.

This wasn’t his first time, after all. Though it had been a while.

The sound Dean made as he took him into his mouth sent chills through Castiel’s very being. His lips were stretched pleasurably around Dean’s girth, and his tongue swirled around the head, the tang of precum hitting his taste buds. Castiel wrapped his finger and thumb around his shaft and moved it in tandem with his mouth, turns of his wrist keeping the sensation just as fluid as the movement of his tongue. On their last encounter, he’d only _felt_ the cock now at his mercy; now it was within his sight and his to taste, and he marveled that whatever sculptor had made this body had not failed to make this part of him just as stunning as the rest.

He picked up his pace, focused entirely on the task at hand. To his initial surprise, Dean was clean shaven. Castiel supposed it was a preference of his customers. The thought was dark and bitter, and it played like a jarring, out of place thrum in his mind, pulling him from the moment. He’d paused in his motions, and as he stalled, gentle fingers wove into his hair. The feeling of Dean’s hand there, the familiar sound of his breathing reaching his ears, steadied him. Recentered him. 

No, he still felt no disgust at the thought of what Dean did with strangers. But falling in love with Dean had caused sadness and regret to claw him deeply whenever it crossed his mind.

Now was his chance to care for this young man, to give freely the things others bought from him, to touch his body out of reverence and not greed.

And so Castiel went on, a new sort of determination blazing in his chest. He kissed down Dean’s length to tease Dean’s balls, the shaved skin sliding smoothly beneath his tongue. Fingernails dug into his scalp before Dean remembered himself, and the action turned into a caress.

From outside the room, came the sound of the apartment door opening.

“I’m going out for the night, boys! Have fun,” Balthazar shouted from the next room, before pulling the door shut behind him.

“Hah,” laughed Dean, sheepishly. “Looks like we’re in the clea-he-hear--”

He’d been interrupted by Castiel sucking one of his balls into his mouth. Castiel resurfaced with a wet pop, looking up to find Dean in a half indignant daze. He chuckled indulgently, and the retort about to leave Dean’s lips was stifled as Castiel rose to his feet. Not taking his eyes off of Dean, he undid the button on his own pants and unzipped his fly. He dropped his pants and stepped from them, a wave of relief washing over him as he was freed from their constraints. He was rock hard in his boxers.

“Make room,” he said, and Dean obliged almost immediately, scrambling back on the queen mattress until his head was by the pillows.

Castiel did not, however, remove his own underwear before joining Dean on top of his sheets. Missing Dean’s lips, he stole a kiss, Dean trembling and moaning as Castiel brushed against his erection. At the feeling of Dean’s thick length against his stomach, Castiel could feel his composure rapidly slipping. His own erection throbbed in his boxers as, of their own volition, his hips rolled as he sank into Dean’s soft, tantalizing kisses. 

One of Dean’s hands was cupping his cheek, and it was almost too romantic a gesture, as if the featherlight brush of the pads of Dean’s fingers were words of passion, of affection, of longing. Castiel felt overloaded with it, with the way his eyes fluttered open when they ended their kiss, how his blown pupils were pools of bliss. He spent a moment drinking in the face of the younger man, and then Castiel lowered his head to place a long kiss at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, soothing with his lips the sharpness of his teeth dragging against Dean’s skin. Once more he found Dean’s cock, which was still slick with his own saliva. He pumped it with his fist, slow strokes as he nudged Dean’s legs open. Positioning himself directly below Dean, he licked a broad stripe up Dean’s scrotum, circling back down to where the sack met a smooth, plush expanse of skin.

“Cas, please,” came a fragile voice bordering on a whine. “Please?”

Castiel thought he knew what Dean was asking for, but he needed to be sure.

“What do you want?”

“I want-- want you to touch me there.”

Castiel shut his eyes at the small explosion that had occured in his center. 

* * *


	6. Denouement

"Of course," said Castiel

Dean nodded vigorously, a salacious smile breaking across his face. Castiel brought his index finger to his lips, sucking it into his mouth as he kept his gaze locked on Dean, who stared back. Finger wet, he drew a line down from Dean’s balls along his perineum, until he reached the tight folds of Dean’s opening, drawing circles there. Dean relaxed into the mattress, spine curving ever so slightly. 

Castiel couldn’t help himself any longer. A thumb stimulating Dean’s anus and his tongue tasting again the swollen base of Dean’s cock, Castiel reached his free hand down to his own straining hard-on. Sneaking a hand into his boxers, Castiel hissed as his fingers came into contact with his stiff erection, which he stroked fumblingly as he continued his work on Dean.

“Takin’ good care of me, aren’t you,” Dean said weakly. “Why don’t you let me give a little back, huh?”

“Not yet, please,” Castiel implored, looking intently up at Dean. Dean licked his lips.

“Well,” and there was some hesitancy in Dean’s voice as he said it, “You think we could do somethin’ a little different?”

Responding to the sudden vulnerability, Castiel rose and laid down by Dean’s side. He’d tucked his erection back in his boxers.

“Right on,” said Castiel, and Dean smiled at the phrase, which fell flatly from Castiel’s lips.

“Not really how that’s -- nevermind. Uh,” Dean swallowed. “You ever rimmed a guy before?”

Dean made a feeble attempt at bravado, but he gave himself away with the flush that rose in his cheeks. Indeed, he soon looked on the verge of nervous collapse as Castiel did nothing but continue to stare at him blankly.

“It’s fine, dude, I shouldn’t’a suggested--”

“Yes.”

Castiel felt slightly dizzy from the proposition, but he mastered himself.

“Yes,” he said again, and he kissed Dean, who melted under his touch.

He drank in the wealth of fair, freckled skin as Dean shifted on the bed, turning over and climbing onto all fours. Behind him, Castiel sat on his knees, and looked down Dean’s broad back, eyes gazing up the line of his spine to where the muscles of his shoulders rolled beneath the skin, hairs of faint gold glowing at the nape of his neck. Castiel kissed the small of his back, and Dean moved with shivering anticipation. With a slow sort of eagerness, Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s ass, the flesh firm but with enough give for him to squeeze. And after just a few breath-holding seconds of running his hands over the globes of Dean’s ass, he spread them apart for better access to that pretty pink rosebud and dove. Dean gasped at the suddenness with which Castiel’s tongue began its work, licking and circling, catching and teasing the tight folds before tracing downwards to his perineum. Flattening his tongue, he rocked his head against Dean, and Dean shouted into the pillow.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, as Castiel licked half circles around his opening. “Y’know -- _ah --_ I don’t usually get this -- _jesus --_ sort of action,” he grunted, and Castiel could hear the grin in his voice.

“Be quiet and enjoy,” Castiel growled, resurfacing only long enough to look at Dean’s ass, which was flushed bright from Castiel’s stimulation.

He teased the puckering skin with flicks of his tongue, eliciting a low whine from Dean. With just a hint of pressure, Castiel put the tip of his tongue against the center, feeling the ring of muscle strain and relent ever so slightly. Dean moaned openly now, and encouraged by this show of pleasure Castiel repeated the motion several times, each repetition his tongue delving a bit deeper. And then he stopped. 

“Hey! What gives?” said Dean, indignantly.

He had turned his head to scowl at Castiel, who’d dismounted the bed. 

“Just grabbing something,” Castiel responded, walking to his nightstand. 

Dean’s look had gone from upset to anticipatory, and he watched as Castiel pulled open the drawer and grabbed a bottle of lube. Turning, Castiel saw Dean’s eyes go wide at the bottle in his hand, and then wider as they traveled down Castiel’s torso to the bulge in his underwear. Castiel smirked.

The liquid was cold, and he warmed it as he coated a finger. Before he began, he made one more pass over Dean’s ass with his tongue, lapping and kissing. Castiel wasn’t proud of much, but he knew what his fingers were capable of; and he wanted to hear every sound Dean could make. He swirled his finger around the pink ring, feeling the delicious pressure, and turned his wrist for the right angle. A shuddering gasp from the head of the bed as Castiel’s fingertip penetrated Dean, slick with lube as he coaxed Dean open, centimeter by centimeter. Adding more lube, soon he was two knuckles deep and enveloped in tight heat. He twisted his finger as he pulled out and went back in again, making Dean’s hips squirm.

Castiel took his time working Dean open, feeling the velvety warmth inside of him, a second finger joining the first, as shamelessly Dean took himself in hand and stroked in time with Castiel’s ministrations. It was almost obscene, the noises escaping Dean. Castiel bit down on his lip hard as his cock twitched.

It was as Castiel scissored his fingers that Dean really became undone; Castiel had hit his sweet spot and Dean’s hands were grabbing at the pillowcase, voice muffled as he buried his face in the pillow. 

“Hey,” said Dean, in a wrecked voice. “C’mere, let’s try something.”

Castiel did not want to be waylaid, but he cooperated. And he was glad he did, for in a moment Dean had him standing by the edge of the bed, feeling the hot breath of the younger man through the fabric of his boxers. It was a fantastic view, Dean’s light hair and honey toned skin, hands grabbing his ass as Dean nuzzled the hardness in his boxers, stealing his breath away. He ran his own hands over Dean’s strong shoulders, fingertips suddenly biting into them hard enough to bruise as Dean slipped his boxers from his hips. 

“Well, hello,” said Dean, and his mouth was so close that Castiel could almost feel the vibrations of his voice.

The best response Castiel had was a low grunt. He was desperate. But he didn’t have long to wait-- in a moment Dean was swirling with his tongue the precum pearling at his tip.

It was just as good as last time; better, even, for he knew who it was that was making him feel this way. Castiel leaned into Dean as Dean swallowed him impossibly deep, taking the opportunity to grab Dean’s ass. Eagerly, Dean arched his back, and again Castiel’s fingers found his pink entrance, still slick with lube. He circled it, mind half melted by what Dean was doing to his cock. Even this sort of indulgence only gave Castiel fleeting relief, as though what had been building up within him was greater than this moment, greater than a hundred moments like this, as though he’d never be free of the feeling in his middle-- like a rubber band stretched too tight, ready to spring.

“Dean,” he moaned. It was a request for closeness, and Dean understood it as such.

Dean pulled off of his cock with a popping noise, and Castiel’s knees shuddered. Castiel kicked off his boxers as Dean made room for him. He’d moved into a kneel, face pink with pleasure, erection heavy between his legs. Meeting in the middle, Castiel clambered onto the bed and they crashed together, hot skin against hot skin as they kissed fiercely. They clutched at one another, trying to fit themselves back together, chasing shared sensation and trying to sink into the moment. Their erections brushed, the friction maddening, but the feeling of Dean’s tongue on his neck stronger still-- and Castiel sank low as Dean bowed his body against himself, allowing Castiel’s roving fingers to find their mark. He pressed at Dean’s hole, and Dean’s breath was sharp. The music had become an extension of their movements, woven into the moment just as fluidly as the light filtering in through the window.

It was only a minute more until Dean asked it. 

“I want you inside of me.”

Castiel comes to a sudden stop, and releases his hold on Dean until they are facing one another. He wishes his reaction could be just as untroubled, just as lust driven as it would have been with anyone else, but somehow, with Dean, it was different. Dean seemed to read the conflict in Castiel’s face, for his brows contracted and he went on.

“Please, Cas, I want this. I trust you.” He paused swallowing. “Do you trust me?”

The doubt left in his chest seemed to dissipate, unable to stand the brilliance of the light that was . Tenderly, Castiel cupped Dean’s cheek. Dean leaned into the touch.

“Of course,” he said, softly. 

They kissed-- a dry one, lips catching, lingering. Sealing their decision.

“Do you--”

But Castiel broke off, unsure of how to phrase his question. Dean was tracing a finger over his collarbone, and looked up at Castiel’s false start.

“Um,” he tried again, “do you need any more, um, preparation?”

Dean laughed, and Castiel was taken aback to hear the amicable weariness that had colored their first few conversations.

“I’m all good. Lord knows this ain’t my first rodeo,” said Dean with a shrug, but his smile faded at the look on Castiel’s face. “Forget I said that,” he whispered. “I’m askin’ for this, Cas. I want you. Want you inside of me. All you gotta do is let me.”

And gently, wordlessly, Dean laid Castiel on his back, and lowered his pretty mouth around Castiel’s arousal, the heat of his tongue sinking through him like fire in his blood. A nod to the nightstand was all that was needed for Dean to lean over and rummage around until he found the small square package. He placed it on Castiel’s chest as he dragged his teeth along the side of his neck, leaving a kiss before he swung out a leg to straddle Castiel.

Castiel fought to keep his eyes open, because giving in to the desire to close them in pleasure would mean missing the sight of Dean’s throat -- his head was thrown back and the pale column of skin was beautiful. Dean’s fist stroked their shafts and Castiel watched the motion through glazed eyes. When Dean reached for the condom, Castiel’s breath was gone. Deftly Dean tore it open with his teeth, biting his lip as he gazed down at Castiel’s thick erection. He rolled the condom onto Castiel’s cock in one fluid motion, and lubed it up before positioning himself just inches above him. Watching Dean sink onto him was almost as overwhelming as feeling Dean’s heat envelop him.

He did it slowly, so slowly that Castiel suspected it was less to give himself time to adjust and more to wind Castiel up further. If that was Dean’s intent, he’d succeeded-- with Dean taking every inch of his length, simply sitting on his lap, Castiel felt his last vestiges of sense and reality leave him. Castiel was no longer in command, and for the first time in his life he was okay with that. Dean took each of his hands and placed them on his hips, and Castiel opened his eyes to see his own fingers leaving an indent in the flesh there. Above him Dean was smirking, and Castiel made no attempt to wipe away the expression that was prompting it; he just tightened his grip on Dean as Dean began to ride him, hips moving in drawn out sweeping motions, throwing his head back as he used Castiel to pleasure himself. Enthusiastically Dean sank himself down on Castiel’s cock, lifting his hips, almost dismounting him, and slamming himself back down again, all the while stroking his own erection. Castiel was melting into the mattress.

Dean was saying filthy things that all blurred together in Castiel’s head. It was like a dream. A dream to have this, to be free of the fear of being caught, to be free of the shame of their actions, of the guilt. The darkness around them was no longer to hide them, but to make it possible to enjoy themselves to the fullest.

He kissed Dean, who’d leaned in to be chest to chest, and Castiel moved his hips up to meet Dean, slight thrusts into his heat. Inside of Castiel something was winding tight, and he gripped Dean, feeling the beading sweat on his back, hearing his breath by his ear. Desperation crept into their voices as words became difficult, Dean meeting Castiel’s thrusts in a frenzy of movement.

“Dean,” he choked out, for Dean was back to riding him, and every second Castiel looked into his eyes was an inch closer to climax.

“Yeah?” Dean replied, still riding Castiel as he spoke.

“I-I want to-- want to--”

Dean stopped as Castiel struggled for words, and with his thumb he brushed a lock of hair from Castiel’s forehead that had stuck there with sweat.

“May I?” Castiel finished.

Dean understood. Castiel was thankful. He didn’t know if he had the words to say any more. 

Faintly, Castiel was aware of the hum of acoustic guitar as Dean climbed off of him, and he groaned at the ache of leaving Dean’s warmth. They switched positions. He laid Dean down with a pillow to prop up his lower back, and without looking from his eyes he spread more lube on Dean’s entrance, slipping in a finger into the hole his cock had stretched just a moment before. And then he was lining himself up with Dean’s opening, his tip pressing at that tender ring of muscle, which tensed and relaxed as Dean bit his lip, eyes at half mast. A shared breathy sigh punctuated the air as inch by inch Castiel penetrated Dean, the angle just right to sink into him to the hilt. He was so deep, maddeningly deep, and Dean’s eyes closed as Castiel thrust his hips up, searching for more. Castiel placed his hands on either side of Dean to hold himself up, and in response Dean’s arms wrapped around his middle, nails biting into his back as he pulled out and slammed back in again. He fucked Dean with calculated thrusts, hips pistoning, angling to hit Dean’s prostate, coaxing out those small shouts of pleasure.

Castiel was nearing the inevitable, but he was determined to lay his claim. Having Dean beneath him, vulnerable and sex drunk and wanting him, was more than Castiel would have ever dared ask for. He would make the most of this moment. As if it was his only chance. But he hoped it wasn’t. He’d never wanted something more in his life.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh and the moans leaving their mouths was loud enough to drown out the music. 

_He was inside of Dean._

In his head played flash frames of the man beneath him, in all the places they’d been together, because Castiel wanted a memory of Dean for every place he went; and he planned to have Dean at his side until he did. 

Each kiss they shared was a miracle, and he took none of them for granted -- and certainly not this one, this gentle joining of lips as he filled Dean completely. 

“I’m close,” said Castiel, and Dean’s nod turned to a shudder as Castiel wrapped his hand around his cock.

“Come in me.”

Castiel was thankful for his considerable self control, for without it he might have came right then and there.’

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Dean.

Like the humming silence just before a lightning bolt, or maybe the sudden stillness of the eye of a hurricane, Castiel gazed down at the beautiful man below him, who seemed to glow. And then he was moving again, the feeling lifting in him, soaring swiftly upward as he sank again and again into Dean, until it spilled over and his rhythm fell apart. With one last thrust, he buried himself in Dean as he came, pressing his forehead against Dean’s as stars flashed beneath his eyelids. Finally, the feeling of anguish, of never having enough, was gone. He was somewhere new.

He pulled out of Dean, who was huffing and sighing, smiling again.

“Jesus,” said Dean. “That was hot.”

“Don’t cheapen the moment,” joked Castiel, discarding the used condom.

“Fuck you,” Dean mumbled, wiping his forehead.

The next few minutes were quiet but for Dean’s soft, overstrung moans, because Castiel had crawled back into place between Dean’s legs, the giving of release on his mind. One finger slipped inside of Dean to caress his sweet spot, Castiel used his other hand to pump Dean’s length, which was thick and hard and pulsing with tension. Castiel watched the lean, beautiful body quake and shudder at his touch, saw the color rising in his cheeks. Dean’s lips framed his warning just moments before the orgasm hit, and he cried aloud as he came in spurts, pearls of ejaculate landing on his abdomen and chest. Castiel stroked Dean until he was empty, and then he kissed him, sloppily and inexpertly, for both were entirely spent.

Ten minutes later, the record had been pulled off the player and Castiel had wiped Dean clean. They lay together, lazily, in one another’s arms. Both were still naked, limbs tangled together comfortably and warmth shared beneath covers.

“Will you stay the night?”

Dean nuzzled in closer.

“O’course I will.”

***

Once again, Castiel found himself awake before Dean. This time, however, he had no plan on leaving. The room was sunny, and the bedsheets smelled like sex, and Dean’s limbs were twisted somewhat awkwardly as he lay on his side, facing Castiel. The sunlight bouncing from the wallpaper was far more beautiful where it laced into Dean’s eyelashes, like sun rays shining through clouds, golden bright. He watched Dean, taking advantage of his stillness to really look at him. Even with his mouth lolling open and his face smushed against the pillow, he was stunning. Castiel wasn’t sure how much time passed as he watched Dean, who snored softly every few exhales, before going quiet. Consciousness re-entered his face in a small frown, a less-than welcoming greeting to the light in the room. His eyes fluttered open, and he gazed at Castiel as he blinked away the drowsiness.

“Were you watching me sleep?” he asked blearily.

“Yes.”

“Creep,” he mumbled.

Dean wiggled an arm from under the covers and flopped it on Castiel, pulling him in so close that their noses bumped. Castiel voiced his discomfort, jerking himself away from Dean’s grasp as he rubbed his nose reproachfully.

“Ow,” Castiel grumbled. Dean just laughed.

When Castiel had lowered his hand, Dean leaned over and laid a wet kiss on his lips. It was something special-- communicating fondness rather than lust, and the feeling of it stayed with him long after Dean had stopped. They laid together for a while, neither eager to leave the warmth of the covers, but eventually Dean muttered something about taking a piss and grunted as he rolled himself to the edge of the bed. Castiel watched appreciatively as Dean slid from under the covers, yawning and stretching and grunting, still completely nude. Obviously sore, he lumbered to the window, round, bare ass showing and light shining through his bowed legs. 

“You have a great ass, you know?” Castiel said to his back.

“I know,” said Dean.

Castiel huffed and smiled, rolling onto his back once more. Dean was silhouetted against the morning bright window, and when Castiel closed his eyes that image was burnished beneath his eyelids. His head sank into the pillow as he heard Dean muttering complaints and padding across the room to grab his underwear. A distracted kiss on the forehead preceded Dean stumping off to the bathroom, and Castiel was completely still, soaking in the feeling of companionship. Of care.

Whatever it was that they had had grown exponentially in one night, and the mark Dean had made on him had become permanent. Sealed. Etched in stone. Lying there on his mattress, thinking about the night before, Castiel finished falling deeply in love with the man who’d just left his bed.

Maybe this morning, he’d try to make something more than toast.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say another thank you to all of the people who cheered me on as I worked on completing this fic! It's the longest thing I've written to date, as well as the first bang I've ever participated in, and I couldn't have done it without the unwavering support of my friends. I hope you've enjoyed this story! Please leave a comment with your thoughts, I'd love to hear from my readers :)


End file.
